


Curious Moonlight

by bjfic_archivist



Category: Queer as Folk (US)
Genre: Canon, Points of View
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2004-10-26
Updated: 2005-02-01
Packaged: 2018-12-27 13:47:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 23
Words: 34,094
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12082281
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bjfic_archivist/pseuds/bjfic_archivist
Summary: Alternating POV vignette series. In chapter 1, Justin muses as Brian sleeps. Justin POV.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Note from IrishCaelan, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [The Brian/Justin Fanfiction Archive](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Brian_Justin_Fanfiction_Archive). To preserve the archive, I began importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in September 2017. I posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [The Brian/Justin Fanfiction Archive collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/bjfic/profile).

If his skin was just a little bit paler, it would glow in the moonlight. Not that he isn't a god among men as he is; the sun's castoff rays glint and glide over him like honey. Midnight sunshine lusts after him just like everyone else and I suppose I'll have to be satisfied with knowing that I get to see what others dream and taste what others touch. It's not much, but it's all I have so that makes it everything.

I love him, and in loving him I learned that love wasn't what I thought it was. It's not the soft-strict affection I get from Mom, or the manipulative impulsiveness that Molly leaves scattered in her bedroom for me to trip over when I visit. No, with him love is words written in blood on the edge of a dagger; unsentimental and unadorned. Naked but for the subtext I'm free to read into and write over and paint on. Loving him is a bouquet of flowers tied with barbed wire, cutting with the sweetest fragrance and silken petals. I cry red tears of joy and wail in ecstatic grief.

Perched on the edge of the bed as I am, I long to touch what I know is warm, perfectly masculine skin. I'm too far away, however, and that's the point. His body is unreachable now, like his fractal soul is all the time. I used to want to grab that soul and put it back together, back when I thought love was hearts and flowers and cinnamon candles.

He'd like to say that he taught me otherwise; that it was him who showed me that romance is a myth, love a fallacy and all you can count on is yourself.

That's not what I learned from him. Love is real, it's just not pretty. It's leather and granite, cutting into my wrists and scraping my knees, leaving me bloody and bruised and sweaty. Romance? True romance is constancy; waking up covered in dried semen and not bothering to get annoyed by the itch, sharing--knowingly or not--pecadilloes like eating hamburgers upside down and loving Ayn Rand even though he knows full well her philosophy is immature and he doesn''t actually follow it although he pretends he does, massaging away the cramps in my drawing hand even as he ignores the fact that he bothered to notice my pain. I can count on him, and he knows it. It took too much pain and idiocy on both our parts for me to see that and I'm damned grateful he let me back in. As if I was ever really gone.

Before he taught me what love really is, I had this vision, sketched in ink and charcoal. Contrary to his ranting, it wasn't some hetero fantasy of a bungalow with a white picket fence, dog, children in tow. It was a fantasy, nonetheless, and like most fantasies it was contingent on me changing him to fit the picture I'd drawn.

My hand's damaged now, and my drawing will never be the same. Somewhere between ditching my consolation prize and crawling back onto his altar, I figured out what love is. Love isn't changing someone to suit you. Instead, it's changing yourself... not to be what someone else wants you to be--but to be what you yourself want to be. Love makes you want to shine, to glitter and glimmer in the sunlight, to glow in the moonlight and blend in with the shadows. I'm in love with him and that makes me want to change; not into a doormat who won't complain about his tricking and his emotional frigidity, but into a person who understands his pain management techniques and has the patience to wait for him to grow up--all without losing myself in him.

Will he change for me? I don't know; I certainly don't expect him to. I can't; it's not my place to ask him to do that. No one has that right, and my worst betrayal wasn't Ethan. It was demanding that he be someone he isn't. I won't make that mistake again.

He's stirring now, probably because he's finally missing the warmth of my body--the one thing that keeps his nightmares at bay. In this, I'm better than liquor, e, pot and tricking all put together. The perfect drug to smooth out the wrinkles on his forehead when the vindictive parts of his memory dredge up reminders of a childhood he'd sooner burn than remember...

So I'll join him in the moonlight, my alabaster a nice contrast to his honey, and we'll catch a few more hours of sleep before someone calls and demands His Royal Highness be present in the throne room. Sad King Brian, ruling a court of fools and syncophants. I mind, but not enough to say anything about it. I don't like it, but I love him and it's part of him and now that I've learned about love, I know that it's one of the warts I get to love along with the rest of him.

The moonlight doesn't warm me the way sunshine does, but the press of our bodies makes the chill meaningless.


	2. Curious Moonlight

He's watching me sleep again; I can feel his eyes on my skin like two knives. Smooth, flat blades tracing every muscle and joint, razor-sharp edges catching and sliding on each contour. If his gaze wasn't so light, even in its intensity, I'd be filleted by now. The fact that his stare affects me is somewhat unnerving; after all, I'm well accustomed to being watched. I enjoy being looked at; I crave it, demand it wherever I go. At work, at play, it doesn't matter; if there's someone else in my immediate vicinity, I want their eyes on me. Watching. Wanting. Craving what they don't deserve to have. What they couldn't earn if they sold their souls. 

But his gaze is different. Everyone else sees the perfection I've honed through countless hours, flawless Damascus steel sharpened mercilessly. Justin sees everything else. He sees the swirling patterns I hide just beneath the cold, polished surface. His eyes judge each one, memorizing and cataloguing them for god-only-knows what purpose. Maybe he'll draw them, when he's bored in class and doesn't want to discuss the merits of pointillism with some overblown, self-important professor who can't stand students who are better artists than he himself is. No one is a better artist than Justin; no one else has eyes like his. 

They see so many things. All my scars, every bruise dear old dad left on my tattered, marble body. Every word that cut into muscle, all the whispers that scraped and tore at my skin. He sees the old ones I make myself forget, and the new ones I don't ever mention. We have an understanding: I let him look so long as he pretends he doesn't see.

Right now, he's a little too far away for my comfort--probably perched right on the corner of the bed, so precariously that if I moved, he'd fall right on his ass, smooth cheeks slapping the floor. Not that I could actually move; any action might disturb his gaze and slice off something I'd rather have attached. Like my heart. 

When he first shoved his way into my life, his constant, frantic movement drove me insane. Some days I wanted nothing more than to tie him down to the chaise and simply leave him there--just for a few minutes of blessed motionlessness. I live by a philosophy of an economy of motion; channel your energy wisely into seducing and fucking and making money. He spent his energy recklessly, bouncing and twisting like a rabbit on acid. Youth at its most frustrating. Save that energy, boy. Your libido is your friend. 

This stillness is a constant reminder of yet another thing I'd rather forget; even though it's permanently tied to the man I can't live without. The boy caught the attention of my lust; the man enthralled my soul and as such my regret is somewhat limited. Still, even that bit of wine-tinged sorrow is all I can bear.

He's probably thinking; I can practically hear his brain humming like a finely tuned engine. He thinks almost all the time, probably even when he's asleep. The only time I'm sure he's not thinking is when my cock is so far inside him I can't find my way back out. I'd bet he's thinking about me. And himself. And mostly him-and-me. 

That translucent entity that hovers in the corner of every room I occupy. Him-and-me. He likes to think about him-and-me, AKA 'us'. I've just about convinced him that I don't think about him-and-me, and that moreover I don't like to. 

But I do. Him-and-me, he-and-I, us... Some days it's all I think about. The first thing on my mind when I wake, the last thing I wonder about before I sleep. Us makes me hard when I'm in meetings, makes me trip on the treadmill, makes me pause at green lights. I think about us. I like to think about us. I like us. 

It's the best thing in my godforsaken life. 

I don't regret us. I don't regret what it took to get us to exist. I don't regret him. 

He loves me now. Before... before, he said he loved me. Now he shows me that he loves me. Before was words, now is action. And finally, FINALLY, he's getting it. In time, he'll perfect this language I'm teaching him. Love is the blood in our veins and has no written language. I say I don't believe in love; what I mean is that I don't believe in the words. I tell people like Mikey I love them because it's an easy way to say that he stands for something good and decent in my life. Good and decent doesn't begin to touch what Justin is. He is water, sunlight, the warmth of fire, the perfect patience of mountains. I breathe him in and swallow him down. If you cut me open, you'd find him wrapped inside my heart, Lord Rama to my Hanuman. 

And slowly, slower than glaciers and climate change, he's healing my fractured, shattered soul. I can only hope with age he learns the patience he'll need to wait, and watch, and wait until I'm well enough to start walking again. Because if he can, and he does, then my first steps will be by his side. As will my last. 

But for now, in this predawn chill, I'm cold and alone. He's there and I'm here and until one of us gives, I'm stuck thinking. Not that I don't like to think, but it's way too damn early for navel gazing. I've got a policy; no navel gazing before coffee. So I'll shift and shudder and like magic, his lithe, warm body is back where it should be. Chasing away the shadows, melting my frozen heart, healing me.


	3. Curious Moonlight

The first thing that comes to mind is that I shouldn't be awake. It's dark still, far too early on a Saturday for my mind to be anywhere but swimming in unconsciousness. It takes a minute for me to realize that I woke up because I couldn't breathe. I couldn't breathe because my face was buried in the crook of Justin's neck--nose and mouth sealed up against sleep-warmed skin. I'm so close to him I don't even smell him right away; his scent has pervaded my senses. In a moment of absurdity I wonder if I've got special receptors that respond only to him. Probably not, but it's that time of morning. When I lick my lips, however, I find it. The taste. His taste; salty and spicy. The guys probably think he's all sugar and honey; shows what they know, right? He's nutmeg and cloves, burning across my tongue all the way to my gut. He makes my mouth dizzy, watering and panting for more. His taste is as dark as his smile is light, and I'm hopelessly addicted to both. 

Tasting him on my lips sends a clear message to my cock, one I'm rarely in the mood to ignore. _Climb inside him. Now, if not sooner._ This wanting probably isn't healthy--at least not for me. I never want anything this much. I refuse to dwell on it any longer; he's here, he's warm and if he's not willing now, he will be in a minute. 

I run my hands from their resting place in the small of his back up to his shoulders, knowing this will start to draw him out of his deep sleep. Not enough to wake him, not yet, just enough to jump start the part of his brain that controls his cock. It works; it always works and now he's starting to move. It's not much; just the slightest shift this way and that, but the end result is his shoulder tilting back and his leg shifting at the knee. He's gone from lax against me to open and offering. I never turn down offers this good. 

He's sweated some during the night so I chase that flavor from his shoulder down to one nipple; the one he got pierced. I don't mess with the ring just yet; that would wake him up in a hurry. Instead I lap until the nub sharpens and then move on, tracing random paths here and there. By the time I reach his navel, he's breathing heavily through his mouth and his cock is flush with blood, mostly erect and brushing against my thigh. I don't resist the urge to weigh it with my palm, fingers curled loosely around the heated shaft. Protecting it, nestled in a secure cage. Precious goods, this; silky and thick. Thicker than mine, which I count as a blessing for more than one reason. I love sucking cock, especially thick cock that fills my mouth. There's damned little better than being crammed full of this blonde boy's dick; my jaw aching as the head rasps against the back of my throat. Then there's the feeling of this cock when it pushes inside me, filling my ass over and over. He's one of the few men who've ever fucked me, and the only one to have the honor more than once. I can't say I'll ever say that about another man. He does it well, very well, and I see no reason to replace this cock with an inferior model. 

My fingers get impatient simply holding him so I stroke him gently. I can feel blood pushing in, filling out his cock. The rest of me finds itself similarly disinclined to be patient, and in a flash my head is buried between his thighs, lips stretched tight around his girth. He is warm against my tongue, throbbing slightly. Somewhere above me, he is gasping for air, his shoulders twisting into the mattress. I can feel his fingers fluttering in the air around my head as he drags himself into consciousness, trying all the while not to force my head down any farther. I wonder how long he'll wait before nudging me along, if I wait here just like I am. It's not like I have to move; he's giving me almost everything I could ask for right now. Warm cock, thick and pulsing. The flavor I've come to crave. Yeah, a bit of thrust-and-glide wouldn't hurt, nor would I mind burying my nose in his crotch for a few minutes just to enjoy his fragrance. But I can wait... a lot longer than he can anyway. 

He's still panting, although the normally breathless sounds are now interspersed with faded, high-pitched whines. His hands have found me now, fingers dancing along my shoulders and over my ears. Not grabbing or pushing--just the lightest brushing strokes. Artist's fingers, whispering to me. _I'm here, remember me? Tell me you haven't forgotten me._ I suppress a smirk, knowing that those delicate hands will soon turn into claws, scraping and forcing me to obey them. Or trying, anyway. I'm not the master of this bed for no reason.

His merry fingers aren't quite so happy now, nipping and pushing at my skin like I was wet clay. Unfortunately for my little blonde boy's raging libido, I'm not so moldable. That doesn't mean I don't thoroughly enjoy his efforts; having his hands on me ignites something I've pretty much decided doesn't need a name. It just is, and right now it's starting to consume me. _Take. Take of him; he's offering. Begging. He exists to be taken by you; just ask him._ I'm going to wait; I have to wait. No choice here; if we're going to get to where I want us to be, he has to lose this round. He's clawing at me now, blunt nails leaving angry welts on my shoulders. His cock is leaking on my tongue; I can taste-smell-feel him, my senses blending into a singular experience that is Justin-in-my-mouth. I can't wait much longer; my mouth is watering constantly, my lips trying to go numb from the constant pressure. The point isn't for me to do this forever; it's to go until he is sure I'm never going to give him relief. 

That moment arrives with a guttural wail and the simultaneous downpress of his hands on my head and a sharp upthrust of his hips. The movement was nothing less than what I'd expected out of him and I react as planned--pulling off his cock while pressing my chest between his thighs, shoving my shoulders underneath them and lifting his legs over my shoulders. Before he can complain about the change in his cock's living conditions, my tongue is twisting its way into his ass. That impatient growl breaks down into a shrieking whine as his hands fall to the bed, digging into the mattress. I can hear fabric protesting the strength in those hands; the sound of his silken hair scraping against a pillowcase provides a soft accompaniment to his wordless begging. I let both sounds flow past me without much regard; I'm consumed by this new part of Justin I've invited to dance across my tongue. Cloves-and-nutmeg, sweat and the very faintest trace of lube from the evening's earlier pursuits; these flavors trip and pirouette past my lips, over my teeth and fling themselves onto my taste buds. I push, thrusting mercilessly, my eyes pressed closed by the skin of his thighs and my nose stroking his perineum. I idly note how his voice is now a strangely monophonic, hollow sound--one that wouldn't be out of place in a Gregorian chant. He sounds like he's calling from the depths of a deep well, his words distorted beyond recognition.

That eerie sound is the first clue, the initial fall off what little bit of sanity he was clinging onto. I'm still waiting for that telltale sign that says his mind is utterly gone. It varies; sometimes it's the way the muscles in his back relax and drop his ass down into just the right position. Other times his eyes just sort of...fracture, all the shades of blue that constitute his irises just bleeding into a swirl of fuck-me-now. This time... this time it's the way the taste of his skin is shifting ever so slightly into that painfully sharp flavor of spice and musky darkness that forewarns the knowledgeable that Justin is just about to take leave of his senses. 

And while he's thoroughly submerged in this haze of I'm-never-going-to-come, I shift upwards. He's still in la la land when I'm prepared, lubed and pressing into his hole. It's not until I'm past the first ring that he drags himself back to where I am--just in time for me to slam forward. His eyes flare open and his mouth gapes as my balls slap against his ass and the choked scream that claws its way out of his throat is down right animalistic. Now, finally, we're getting there. _Inside, crawl inside. Deeper, drive deeper with your cock, with your tongue. Push, strain, thrust until you get all the way inside and find yourself there, where you've always been._

He's bent in half, ankles hooked together behind my neck so my arms are free to grip his shoulders. Every thrust is my whole body shoving its way through his, up his ass and out his mouth. My skin aches to be inside his; my mouth attacks his lips so my tongue can find its way home.

He's back to sounding like he's stuck in a well, his moans vibrating from deep in his belly. I can feel that sound from my mouth to my cock and beyond; my balls twitch and tighten as echoes reverberate between us. His hands are digging into my ass, adding extra force to each thrust. His hole clenches wantonly, tightening and loosening in concert with my cock. He wants me inside, tries to force me to stay. My own asshole flutters in sympathy with the force of our coupling. I swear I can feel his cock pushing into me as I fuck him; I'm inside him and he's inside me. If it weren't for the press of his ankles on my back and the blur of sheets behind his head, I wouldn’t know who was fucking whom right now. 

I taste myself on him and him in me; his nipples tighten as his balls draw up and my body does the same. We've moved from fucking to rutting, our mutual screams drowned in each other's mouths, sweat making us clumsy. I want to slow down, to make this last; my mind is enthralled by the sensation of my cock in him and all of him inside me. My body has its own agenda. _Thrust, push, come, come inside him. Mark him; he is yours. Always yours. Come inside him, make him taste like you. Make him forget everything but you. Make his existence nothing but you._

Then his teeth catch my lower lip and tug, drawing the myriad sensations my body and mind are fighting to control into one overwhelming wave. It slams into me over and over; my balls pulse and my dick throbs; I think my spine just shot out my cock. It's certainly not inside me anymore; pleasure has rendered me boneless. He's in this with me; I can feel him thick and hot inside me, shoving one more time and then comes a ghostly fluttering of liquid heat that only my mind is sure is there. My vision is blurred, focus narrowed down to a line of sweat drizzling down Justin's cheekbone, falling onto his ear. 

I try to move, to no avail. Here is comfortable, even with quickly cooling semen gluing us together. I try to tell him that if he moves this way and I shift that way, we'll be on our sides and thus much more comfortable, but words will not come. Somehow we manage to move anyway, his legs and my arms sliding around until we're pressed together, chest to chest. One of us discards the condom, the other pulls up the duvet. He tucks his head under my chin and I bury my face in his hair. Legs and arms twist tightly together, leaving endless knots draped in deep blue velvet. And we sleep once again.


	4. Curious Moonlight

Brian's touching me. Oh, I know that if we're in the same vicinity we're usually touching and if we're in bed together we're almost always pressed skin to skin, as though full body contact was as vital to our continued existence as oxygen and water. But that's us touching. This is Brian touching me. Action as opposed to quiescence. My mind assures me I'm still asleep, but my body is making note of the fact that a certain, very familiar, pair of hands are doing things to it. He's touching me. With purpose. 

Of course that means that my body is reacting. I can feel myself moving; a subtle shift of muscle and bone as my well-trained shell obeys its earthly master. I observe from the shadows of my mind, which is still unconscious. I've never been the type to wake easily or suddenly, even when someone is manipulating my body. Hell, nothing short of a shotgun blast next to my ear can rouse me with any speed, and Brian touching me is no exception. I think he likes it, that he can spend considerable time on foreplay without my conscious involvement. When we're both fully awake, he's more of a 'fuck more now' kind of guy, eschewing foreplay for penetration five minutes ago. It's part of his image--the stalking predator who doesn't give his prey a chance to get comfortable before leaping in for the kill. 

In reality, though, Brian likes foreplay. He enjoys getting to touch, to feel and taste and admire at length. He just doesn't want any witnesses, so I don't let on that I know what he's doing. I may be a talkative sort, but one of the things I've never told anyone, most especially him, is that I'm fully aware of his tender attentions when I'm asleep. When he first started doing it, I chalked up the memories as dreams. The thing is, this is no dream; it can't be. I'm too fucking aware of what's going on. I'd say it was lucid dreaming, but I have no control over the action, no way to stop or start or dictate what he touches. It's not a true dream because every fucking time it starts, I end up waking up to him either inside me or just about to split me in two--no exceptions, no false starts, and no illusions. Thus, this is no dream. It's him, being gentle and loving and, dare I say, romantic... when witnesses are absent and he's got all the time in the world.

I'm happy to indulge him, and not just because it invariably results in me getting laid by the best fuck on the Eastern Seaboard. Brian doesn't like to share of himself, not the parts he truly values. Everyone gets to see the Kleenex-throwaway parts of him, like the asshole façade and the stud persona. Sex-god-Brian is an easy lay; lover-Brian is really damned picky. I'm the only one who gets to experience him these days, and I seriously doubt many before have seen him either. Maybe before he got kicked around a few times, but I get the feeling he got kicked often enough early enough to never let anyone that close to him. I had to sneak in when he was distracted, and it was damn hard to get there. 

_Touching._

His tongue is on my skin, wet warmth waking up nerves as it travels from my neck downward. Contact between it and my nipple ring threatens to shock me into wakefulness, but he's too careful for that. Easy, lightweight lapping sends tiny flashes of white light behind my eyelids, rousing me into one of those lower levels of semi-consciousness. Then he's moved on, teasing my navel. The tiniest bit more there and I'd be awake; I think I can hear myself panting. My mind says I should be, so I probably am. I wonder if he knows just how much I love this, how much I love being at his mercy. It's a good thing I have a good grasp on my identity, or I'd lose myself in wanting him to touch me. 

I think Brian likes my cock a lot. As a gay man, he should; what fag doesn't like cock? And yes, I have a rather nice cock; it won't win awards like his, but that's because I don't share it like he shares his. But what I mean is that Brian _likes_ my cock. He always spends some of this foreplay-time with it; petting it, holding it, and probably admiring it. He likes to measure it, with his eyes and his hands. That's what he's doing right now, just holding my cock in his palm, agile fingers clasped loosely as though to keep it from leaping away from him. The sensation of being held in that warm hand draws me closer to consciousness; I'm half-hard and getting harder by the second, my blood answering the call of his skin. My body is paralyzed, but my mind is vibrating with anticipation, perched on the edge of waking up and ruining Brian's foreplay in exchange for faster, harder and more real sensations. It's like watching Rocky Horror and hitting pause right as Frank is leaning at the elevator. My mind-voice is chanting 'say it, say it, say it' as I slog my way through the last vestiges of unconsciousness. Just a little bit more and my eyes will be open, crashing this moment. 

_Say it. Say it. Say it. Say it._

I'm slammed into wakefulness in a crush of cracked screaming and gasping breaths, my body twisting and jerking. It takes my mind and body a second to get in sync, at which time I'm informed that the incredible sensation that's brought me here is his mouth on my cock. Oh god, his mouth. It's hot and wet and tight; I can feel every fucking taste bud just sitting there, pressing against my dick--probably leaving imprints. His lips are soft, stretched around me, sealing in all that moist heat. Soon, soon, I know he'll move, smirk firmly in place even before my dick slides out of his mouth. He'll reach up and that smirk will slide into a grin and then we'll fuck. 

_Say it. Come on you sick fuck, say it._

Only he's not moving. My cock is starting to hurt and I want him to suck it or let it go, or fuck me or do something. Read the newspaper, get a cup of coffee, get me off but damn it don't just lay there. My cock isn't candy, no matter how he treats it; it won't melt in his mouth. If anything, it gets more substantial the longer he leaves it there. My asshole is beginning to twitch, anticipating...

_Say it goddamn you._

I want to force the issue, shove my hands in his hair and thrust into his mouth. It's what he'd do if our positions were reversed...but they aren't and I'm not him and unless he's given me the ok for such a game, I'll have to make do with wanting to fuck his face. The air around his head is charged and my fingers get little shocks as they glide through it. The contact between us isn't enough--and who would have thought that Brian's mouth on my cock wouldn't be enough--so I let my fingers slide along his skin, petting here and there. Reminding him that I'm more than just a blood-warm blow-up doll. Look at me, I'm a real boy! And hey, real boys like action. 

_Touch me._

He's laughing at me. I can tell, with absolute certainty, that somewhere in the gorgeously festering depths of his twisted mind, he's laughing his ass off that I'm at his mercy and didn't even put up a fight. I'm almost at the end of my very short tether, so I not-so-gently remind him that I'd like some more. Please sir, I'd like some more. Now. If I push any harder I'm going to have his skin peeled off and littering the sheets like confetti. He'll be marked regardless, angry red scratches attesting to the fact that my control is sorely lacking--if it's even in existence. 

I think I'm moaning, but I'm not sure. There are some fucking strange sounds in this room right now, and his mouth is full. Of me. My mouth is full of... _Touch me damn you. I'll beg if you want me to. Just touch me. Say it. Touch me. Touch. Me. Say. It._

At the very moment I decide to take matters into my own hands--and hips--he decides to fucking move. And fuck if the contrary bastard doesn't pull off me and quicker than I can blink, the world is moving in funny ways. Why am I staring at the wall behind the bed? Why is my cock cold? Why--

_oh god oh god oh god oh god oh god oh god_

The familiar mantra reinforces the obvious fact that his tongue is in my ass. Wet, soft-hard, firm and pressing _oh fuck_ just there. He knows where every nerve ending is and he's playing them like a maestro. My skin wants to crawl down there to get in on the fun; my lips are jealous that he's plying my hole and not them. At least my cock has stopped complaining for the moment; it's dripping happily on my stomach. I groan, the sound dredging itself up from the base of my cock and slithering out my throat like a serpent. I want something, I'm just not sure what. He's holding me still so I can't thrust my hips into his face; instead I suffice with ruining the sheets and thrashing my head around. My hair tangles in my eyes, burning slightly, but does nothing to ground me. He should be moving on now, shoving a finger or four in my ass and getting me ready for his cock. And, of course, he should be fastidiously licking the precome off my abdomen and pressing open-mouthed kisses on my dick. He should be fucking me. 

_god help me help me fuck me god fuck me fuck god help fuck me_

Something inside me releases, like an elastic band stretched too far. It doesn't break; it just...gives. Whatever-it-is slides easily to its maximum extension and then stays there. My cock will probably never go soft and my asshole just sold itself to his mouth. I don't care anymore; he can do whatever the fuck he pleases. The pleasure hurts; it fucking stings and bites and claws like a cat in heat. I'm passive, laid open and glistening with blood I can't exactly see but am sure is there. I can smell it and the tension in the room, all thick and heady with mocking arousal.

Then something changes. It's there, and my entire body shouts a frantic wake-up call. Stretch, press, burn and oh fuck his cock is _there right there_. I wait, anticipate and don't even get a chance to blink or want him to do anything when the tease makes good on itself. 

He's there. 

_There._

All the way there, his cock in as far as it can physically go, farther than anyone has a right to be. His balls smack my ass and I swear the tip of his cock is nudging my tongue. Oh fuck is he ever there, as big as ever but bigger than life at the moment. I want him deeper, I want his entire body fucking my hole. _Climb inside me, there's room in here for you. Shove me aside and make yourself at home._ I welcome his tongue with mine, enthralled as always by finding my taste on it. It's so at home there, like I've always belonged in his mouth, on his cock and gripped in his hands. I swear I'm inside him, slipping into him alongside my tongue. I can feel my heart thumping against his, my hands sliding along his hands, my cock thrusting into a tight hole--his, not mine, since mine is filled with his cock--and I wonder if we're really just one body with two minds sharing it. It's an oddly masturbatory thought, and one I won't mind losing when he does that _thrust push thrust grip slide thrust harder push thrust_ again.

I bite his lip just to make sure we're really two bodies really close together and this isn't a fucking dream. I don't have to pinch myself; the impossible stretch of my hole around his dick keeps me infinitely aware of my own consciousness. His body, though, it could be asleep and I'm a figment of his imagination. And now _oh god, say it say it say it_ we're coming, nerves firing and wiping away my mind's inane chattering about oneness. 

This is oneness, his dick swelling and both our assholes clenching, lungs crying out for relief, fingers tightening against the slickness of sweaty skin. I can feel my come trying to cement us together, aided by the weight of his body as it slumps harder against me. We're sinking in the mattress and I think he might be thinking of saying something, but I hope he doesn't. My ears aren't working; they're still ringing with aftershocks of _fuck just say it oh fucking god_ one hell of an orgasm. 

We're moving now, some untold time later. It mustn't have been long; his cock isn't really soft yet when the condom comes off. I wonder who did that? The thought fades from my mind as our bodies stray away from Brian-touching-me and return to us-touching. I like this all-too-infrequent post-coital arrangement of limbs intertwined under my favorite blue velvet folly, sharing the heat we just finished creating.


	5. Curious Moonlight

Although I don't ponder it that often, when I do waste my time thinking about Babylon, I wonder why I've not gotten bored with it yet. The place never changes; semi-naked men writhing and grinding, a sour stench of alcohol and drugs and the downright nasty aroma of backroom assignations. The music is mindless, the conversation pointless and the lighting epileptic. If the original Babylon was like this place, God wouldn't have had to strike it down; the populace would've taken it apart brick by brick on principle alone. Sure, the place is fun enough at night, but it's no tower of song. In the harsh morning light, this Babylon is tawdry, tacky and hollow. Its worshippers can only leave offerings and surrender their adulations after they've been sufficiently hypnotized and distracted. 

Regardless of my frequently low opinion of the place, I never tire of Babylon. Then again, so many memories, good and bad, have been made here--most of them with Brian. I've come here without him, left without him, _left_ him in this place...but it's never right, never comfortable or fun, when he's not with me. Absent Brian, my time at Babylon is a desperate quest for mindlessness and escape--from what drove me to Babylon as well as the place itself. I thrust myself into a crowd of skin in the vain hope that for a few minutes, my mind will dance along with my body and I won't have to think. It doesn't work very often, much to my chagrin.

With Brian, Babylon becomes a vaguely seedy playground--not unlike the ones you see on made-for-TV movies where drug dealers skulk behind trees and used hypodermic needles poke out of the sand. The toys are fun, the people colorful, but don't turn your back and for god's sake, don't pick anything up. Brian and I slide, swing, twist and spin our way through the amusements, ignoring the go-go boys and most of the flesh shows in favor of doing a little performing of our own. We have paid memberships, but they really should be paying us for our presence. After all, we keep the attendance high and the bar popular. And that's not even getting into what we bring to the backroom. 

We're royalty here, Sad King Brian and the Twink Who Would Be King. When we arrive, the crowd parts like one of us is Moses. I'm guessing that's Brian, which makes me the burning bush. After all, I am more of a flamer than he is...most of the time, anyway. And he _is_ an old man, compared to me. 

I'd like to continue ruminating on the State of Babylon, but as the royal couple we have duties to fulfill. The DJ's putting on something he thinks we'll like, and in truth it's not a bad choice for this place. After throwing back whatever Brian ordered for me--Jim Beam again, the man is nothing if not consistent--I'm off to the dance floor. Brian's right behind me, close enough for the hair on the back of my neck to prickle but not quite touching. It's the position I prefer--him towering over me, staking his claim. When he's like this, me and everyone else, including him, knows that he's here with me tonight. The tricks will just have to get their jollies vicariously, wishing they were me. They aren't me, they could never be me and they know it. I'm sure it makes their dicks shrivel. 

I'm dancing before we make it to our spot in the center of the dance floor, my hips twitching in concert with a thumping bassline. Brian's arms wrap around my waist, the fingers of his left hand hooking in my waistband while his right hand balances on my cock. The pressure and seeping warmth make me hard, like they always do, giving him something more substantial as a handhold. We're molded together, ass to groin and back to back and he's shifting the hand on my cock in time to the music. My dick is throbbing like the bass is pumping out of it and I can't breathe from the heat wrapping around us. 

That flashfire heat works perfectly to annihilate everyone around us. Faces disappear in a haze of strobing lights, their anonymous bodies nothing more than interruptions in the flow of music. Right now, this Babylon is that Babylon; skin and bone and sex and blood churning together in a mélange of discordant voices, nightmarishly garish faces and confusing noise. We've come together to share water, but instead we find ourselves wading in sweat. We came to dance, but we're not floating across a ballroom; no, we're rutting ourselves through an abattoir. It's not that there's no grace to what we're doing, because there is, but it's the cracked, leaden grace of grenades and not the feathery, translucent beauty of fencing. There is no honor in this dancing, but there is power to spare. Force, might, and a high body count. 

Brian's out-and-out jerking me off now, abrading my dick with each harsh stroke as we deftly twist our way around the garbled words someone's singing. The material of my jeans feels like gravel and it almost hurts, but I keep thrusting into his hand, my shoulders hitting his chest and my ass cradling his cock. I've got my arms pinning his, just in case he thinks he should stop. He can't stop until the music does; I'm sure my body would come apart at the seams if he did. 

Our bodies are plastered together by sweat and sound, nearly as close as they were this morning when we were lost inside each other and couldn't find our way out. I can't hear the music anymore, not that I need to with the sound-feel-taste of blood rushing out of my heart straight into my cock and Brian's body's staccato backbeat thumping along my spine. Yeah, this is why we come here, why we endure sticky floors and expensive booze and the clammy stares of desperate, lonely men. We come here because we can, and because we can do this, to ourselves and to them. When I come back down from wherever Brian's sent me, I'll collect up the mountains of deliriously sharp gazes like so many roses thrown at our feet and know that we've done our duty. We've shown the seething masses that, in fact, there is a god. That I also prove to them that their god is taken, well...that's something I do for me. 

But now the lights are changing and Brian is stroking less and pressing more. When I blink, our admiring audience's faces return to their natural resting places and music once again pounds against my ears. I can't quite catch my breath, though, because my body is still making its own music, perfectly in time with Brian. I need either a drink or Brian's cock, whichever one presents itself to me first. Something, anything to still what's thrashing about inside me. I know where my preference lays, but tonight I'm willing to abide by whatever Brian chooses. So long as he chooses quickly, because tonight's floorshow does not include me melting to the dance floor in an orgasmic seizure. I'm saving that for the backroom.

Judging by the way he's clawing at me, I'd say we're thinking the same thing. Again.


	6. Curious Moonlight

We're in Babylon, allowing the crowd to part as we angle towards the bar for an initial shot of courage. I wonder briefly why we're here; there are so many better things we could be doing other than entertaining the masses with our presence. I don't have to think about it long; we're in Babylon because it's Saturday night and on Saturday nights, we go to Babylon. It's just one of the syllogisms that form the foundation of my existence; if A, then B; if it's Saturday night, then I am at Babylon. I'd find the consistency slightly hobgoblinish if it weren't for the man by my side. Justin makes the routine a pleasant one. In my more philosophical moments I mull over why I never noticed how fucking atrocious this place is without him, and why I prior to his now-permanent intrusion into my life I never realized how much this place annoys me. The club caters to a younger crowd than I--well, than I am now. Even a year ago it was perfect for my never-say-grow-up attitude. Now, it's where I go to soak up a little adulation and show off my baby's perfection. Of course, he probably hates the place too; he was more mature than I was when we met and that's still true today. I'd say that will hold true for a very long time. I've always lived by the motto, 'you're only young once, but you can be immature forever.' I'm working hard to live up to it. From the looks of things, so are most of Babylon's patrons--including the nearly forty year-old man in a see-through mesh shirt who just made me regret eating dinner. Perhaps my act of royal compassion tonight will be to get that man an opaque shirt. I'm sure everyone else would be eternally grateful. 

Damn, this place needs renovation. I'm sure Sap thinks the look is timeless, and he's partially right--it has the appearance of a place that was decorated before time began. Whatever tacky 80s revival that's sweeping low fashion right now aside, he could do better. I suppose the décor, such as it is, serves its purpose; we all drink more, dance more, and fuck more in an effort not to notice that our playground is a bit worse for wear, and probably has lead-based paint on the wall...which reminds me to make sure Justin never lets his lips touch said walls. As if he ever would, knowing what else has come in contact with those surfaces. 

We're being watched already; I can feel their eyes on us like sticky fingertips tangling in my hair. The Royal Couple has arrived in court, and I'm a bit surprised that our constituency hasn't formed a receiving line. Our place as the regal overseers of gay Pittsburgh is by popular choice--me because I worked damned hard for it and Justin because whether he realizes it or not, he was born into the position. After all, I had to spend years building my reputation through countless fucks...but all Justin had to do was stand under a lamppost, and he was in for life. Oh, the title didn't arrive 'til he shook his ass on stage, but he was already a king. Make that emperor; he's more than a simple king. Lord of all he surveys. We try to keep quiet about that fact, lest it go to his head. Either of them. 

By the time I've gotten the bartender's attention, it's become obvious that the fags in charge have noticed our arrival. The music shifts ever so slightly into something Justin actually likes, informing everyone present that the show will begin forthwith. Justin doesn't wait for the Beam to burn its way to his stomach before he's strutting his way onto the floor, leaving a wake of hopeful faces turned towards his solar presence. They don't touch--not because they don't want to, but because I'm here. If it was just one of us, they'd be throwing themselves upon some sort of altar, begging for attention. But when the Kings of Babylon arrive in court together, the masses can only admire. 

That doesn't mean I don't protect what's mine, so I follow him closely, letting the heat of his body guide me to our designated place. The locals watch in resignation, but they're not who this part of the show is for; this is for the outsiders, the interlopers and the newly arrived who don't know the way things work around here. They're the ones who'll try to cut in, to lure Justin away from me and into the backroom...the ones who think he's just another twink with pretty eyes, a big cock and a perfect ass. They're the ones I'll get to eviscerate as soon as the thought crosses their minds. Because bloodshed turns my pretty boy's stomach, I'll put on this display and nip those thoughts in the bud. Our dancing will go on uninterrupted and Todd will get an extra helping of business later on this evening. 

When Justin starts swaying to the music, I don't bother resisting the urge to touch him. He belongs where he is, cradled in my arms, cock in my hand, ass cradling my dick. Both positions are striking claims of possession; we own each other, our bodies belong to no one else. The music here will never be called art, but it has its uses, one of which is to make these displays of vertical sex possible. It's not quite foreplay; I don't do foreplay when witnesses are present. This is exhibitionism toned down just enough to avoid an NC-17 rating. Our cocks are covered, which isn't saying much considering the tightness of our clothing and the size of our dicks. The whole act is coarse, lewd and transparent. We're fucking-not-fucking; we dance on our feet now knowing that we'll be on our knees later. 

As my hand tightens on Justin's cock, I feel a momentary pang of regret at how much of a transgression against the art of dancing this act is. For me, dancing has always been about sex. Ballet, club, tap, flamenco, waltzing... they're all about sex. Babylon's dancing is pure fucking, which for most of my life was all I swore I needed. I fucked men, I danced at Babylon. I don't just fuck Justin anymore, and one consequence of that is that this raw body-slamming has lost some of its glitter. We'll never want the star-crossed tearstains of ballet, or the pricktease of tap, but the taut foreplay of waltzing...that I could work with every so often. 

The thought sends warm tingles down my spine and I let myself work Justin's body a little harder. He would be glorious on a formal dance floor, blonde hair and blue eyes shining as we floated our way across polished hardwood, spinning and gliding in a finely choreographed display of giddy desire. We couldn't do it here; for one thing, the poor little fags of Babylon would stroke out if someone dared to waltz within these walls, and besides, I would never let anyone but Justin see that much of myself. It would be all too apparent how I felt about him, too obvious that this man has found a home in a place where no one else dares to tread. 

My mouth waters at the mental image of waltzing with Justin, at the tension that would build between us as the only contact points between our bodies were our hands, waist and shoulder. Forced separation, unbreakable eye contact, every step dictated from on high. Waltzing as a recitation of everything we never say, that I won't let him murmur even when I'm asleep. I wonder if I could make him orgasm just by waltzing with him. It's a challenge that I truly want to take up. 

A broken moan brings me back into the universe of Babylon and I note that Justin and I have progressed from sort-of-dancing to basically-fucking. The handjob I'm giving him is working well; he's plastered against me from calf to head, writhing and undulating like a wild thing. My cock is riding the swell of his ass and he's pushing his dick into my hand as if to make sure I know he doesn't want me to stop. As if I would; my preference would be to never stop touching him, never let him come down from the euphoric sexual high to which only I can send him. 

I gasp after he thrusts back, twisting himself against my cock--which leaps in a desire to bury itself inside him. Every breath draws in the heady scent of his skin, hot and moist. I can feel everything inside his body--his lust and desire, the keening wail of want-to-come, the thumping heartbeat that is so close to my own. Whatever surrounds us is fading into nothingness; its presence is meaningless in the face of what I have before me. It's moments like this when I realize that the courtiers who surround us must surely be blind; they continually pursue both Justin and I when a good hard glance at the two of us together has to show that none of them have a chance. What do they possibly have to offer that even begins to compare to this? Nothing, that's what. 

Just when I'm about to slide my hand inside his clothes, the music shifts away from where we were going and I'm pushed back into my head. This is not the time to put on a show for the masses, not that I haven't done it before. No, I think it best that the King and his Emperor adjourn to their drawing room, where the atmosphere is more conducive to such delectations as we might prefer at this time. I crave him right now, so to the backroom we go; the thing is, I'm not sure if I can be satisfied with a quick fuck tonight.


	7. Curious Moonlight

The backroom stinks, but it takes a minute for me to realize that I can't actually smell it. My nose is a hairsbreadth from his neck and is thus filled with his scent and nothing else; my mind simply expects to be hit with the overwhelming and noisome odor of my preferred retiring chamber. Once it realizes that the usual sensory experience is not going to occur, the perceived olfactory offense disappears and that part of my brain relaxes, wallowing in being allowed to savor him and nothing else. If I work this right, and I always do, I'll smell nothing tonight but him. His sweat blending with mine, his breath in my lungs, his semen perfuming the air like hell's own roses. My cock, already painfully hard, twitches in anticipation. With just the slightest bit of effort we can cleanse this place of its usual stench and leave in our wake something these pathetic supplicants can dine on as they ply their worthless bodies on each other. 

He is leading us at the moment, dodging a few bold hands who dare to invite us to play. We do play with others, on occasion, but we always make the offer; it's obvious the owners of those hands don't know the score. If I was of a mind to lower myself to touch them, I'd slap and kick. Tonight, though, my hands will be filled with him and nothing else; I won't risk sullying him by touching another. Although no one has actually made physical contact yet, I can feel dozens of eyes gazing upon us, their touches alternating between satin and oil. Slick and soft and I can't decide whether to squirm in discomfort due to the slickness or the constraint. In a very short while I won't even notice them anymore, no matter how hard they stare. Not that I don't like the attention; I do. I like to have them staring at my body, my cock, the boy that they can't have and I can. I want them to watch, to see, to gape in disbelieving awe. Awe at the beauty that both of us have individually and the synergistic glory that is us together. Watch in fascination, aroused jealousy and a hint of disappointment as we do so easily what they could never even attempt no matter how hard they dream. I want them to lay awake for days afterward, their cocks hard and their teeth gnashing as they try and fail to get themselves off, stuck in a mobius loop of blue balls and almost-coming. The very thought almost makes me come in my pants.

We're well into the backroom by now and it's obvious that he is heading for one of the secluded alcoves he favors. That's not what I want tonight; if I wanted privacy, I'd have just taken him by the hand and driven us home. The skin-to-skin contact made as I grab his wrist and stop him makes both of us swallow hard and he turns to look up at me. We're stopped in front of a garishly upholstered sofa, currently occupied by several men receiving what look to be depressingly average blow jobs. I restrain myself from instructing the men on their knees in proper blow job form and technique; no doubt he would not appreciate the interruption in our interlude. Indeed, neither of us would; we came here to fuck and my mouth wants something inside it. It's craving something warm, something wet and slick and _exactly that_.

I'll never tire of this, of his tongue alongside mine, fighting and caressing, stroking the roof of my mouth and curling around my teeth. He is a spice-box, redolent of cinnamon and bourbon. Even the slightest contact stings, inciting me, stirring me to dominate, to attack, to push him out of me and pull me into him. We move from my mouth to his, lips dragging roughly together and apart, protesting the pressure and friction, daring us to draw blood. I've got him pressed against the back of the sofa, pinned so he can't move, can't dart away from me, a glimmering bird caught in my predator's claws. All it takes is the force of my groin against his and my hands gently cupping his hips and he's trapped, where I want him. _Always where I want him._

We're moaning, the sound soft enough to pass between us unnoticed by others. The faint vibrations nevertheless settle like a vice grip around my cock, squeezing out drop after drop of slick fluid and I want to be inside him _so fucking badly_. So badly I think I might actually start shaking, hands and lips quivering in withdrawal, in pure goddamned need. Breaking away from those hypnotic lips, I lean down to bite my favorite spot at the crux of his neck. He arches into me as my teeth worry his skin, pressing just hard enough to leave two rows of angry red welts. His breath cracks hotly across my ear, wordlessly pleading the same words his cock is whispering to mine. Our pulses thrum together, connected everywhere we're touching--through skin, clothes and bone. The need is growing, clawing its way out of my throat, poised at the base of my cock. 

I take a step back, keeping my hands on him when he sways at the loss of support. His eyes are hazy and unfocused, but they don't stay that way for long. I reach for his shirt at the same time he goes for mine; each bit of skin we expose increases the temperature of the room degree by degree. We're professionals at disrobing, managing to lick and suck, kiss and stroke each inch of flesh we uncover--somehow without getting tangled or distracted. Quick, efficient and impossibly arousing. I've always been good at hiding foreplay, but with him as my student we've both become masters. There is nothing romantic about this display, at least not on the surface. We're just getting ourselves naked. Right. 

As soon as we're both finished, I spin him around, catching my right arm under his right knee and lifting that leg as I inch him forward. My beautiful baby boy is no idiot; he raises his leg higher and hooks it over the back of the sofa, pressing his left thigh against the supporting frame. He's perched there, between two muscle queen gym bunnies whose attention is no longer on their own cocks, but rather on his, jutting erect and straining in the narrow space between them. There is just enough room for his slim body, one foot sinking into a dubiously stained cushion. The sofa is there to support his weight and give him something to use as leverage. By now he has to have realized that this is not going to be a quick fuck.

He's waiting, skin tensing and relaxing around my hands as they smooth down his back and over his ass. I stroke once across his exposed hole and he thinks that's what's going to happen next; I'm going to lube him up and split him open. And I will...eventually. But for now, I've got something better in mind. My tongue has received one of his tastes and now it craves a slightly different one, one it might just like even better than his tongue. My knees are grateful for the presence of his clothes as they hit the ground, my face sliding down his back and coming to rest against the perfect mounds of his ass. I inhale sharply, letting the intake of air serve as a single, short warning to him. He barely has time to register the sensation before my tongue finds his hole. _Tight. Hot. Mine._ I brush his hole lightly once, twice and a third time before delving inside, twisting to allow the rough top and slick underside surfaces to hit every nerve ending. Scrape and sooth, press and release; his hole flutters open and closed, beckoning me inside and then refusing to let go. My fingers dig into his ass and hold him open, one hand swiveling down to let a thumb push in underneath my tongue. I hold him open, stretching him down as my tongue strokes upwards. I can hear him now, his voice catching on his teeth. I am filled with the scent of him, growing ever stronger. Sweat begins to trickle down his swan's-back, finding my tongue with unerring accuracy. Salt mixing with spice, water and musk and he's riding my tongue, using both legs to rock against me. His fingers are gripping the sofa, arms tensed to show surprisingly toned muscle. I can tell his head is thrown back, diffuse light glinting in his damp hair as his strawberry lips cry out and up, voice echoing off the ceiling. Their eyes are watching but now those gazes do not reach us, cannot touch us. The heat and arousal we're building holds them at bay; they watch from behind the glass panes of this union they cannot even begin to understand. 

As much as my tongue enjoys his ass, my cock is demanding its own taste of that delicacy. By the time I reach my feet, I've got the lube open and two slick fingers inside him, curving up to stroke his prostate even as I scissor them apart. My cock protests the condom, as it always does when I'm about to fuck him. It never ceases to amaze me that with any trick, I'm not physically ready to fuck until I feel latex on my skin, but with him I sense nothing but regret. Someday, that sensation will be nothing but a memory. For now all I can do is press the head of my cock against his hole, withdraw my still-splayed fingers and know that the first thrust inside him will overwhelm any momentary pangs. 

And then it's there. _There._ That moment of impossible pressure, almost painful, of the very tip of my cock ordering him to let me in. Commanding, demanding and then taking what I want. His mind wants me in, even as his body resists. It wants to resist, _craves_ that sensation of being taken. Overpowered, forced into submission, made to open, to spread itself before me. We are equals, but at this one point of contact, in this however-you-want-to-phrase-it instant, my body commands his, utterly. Completely. _Mine._ I own him.

By my own design, the slide into his body is insanely slow. I want him to feel every millimeter of my cock and I have to feel his hole burning me alive, so slowly I half-fear that I'll melt away before I'm completely there. My chest presses to his back, sealing us together with our sweat. My mouth finds the back of his neck, sucking hard enough to raise a purple bruise before I shift my head up and over to press our cheeks together. His eyes are wide and unseeing, staring blindly to the heavens and I can feel his breath gasping along his lips and blending with mine. He wants me to finish this initial joining, to just push forward as I hold his hips steady. I stay the course, wanting to torture us just that little bit more. The head of my cock glides ever-so-slowly over his prostate and his entire body quakes, cock jerking, balls tightening. The seconds it takes for the contact to pass are interminable; it must feel like I've dropped an anvil on his crotch and left it there. He wants, but this is my show and we both know it. Our muscles flex and twitch with agonizing grace, my back flowing into an arc as I finish pushing inside him. Now, and only now, are we joined. 

We are paused now, enjoying the simple state of union in which we find ourselves drowning. His entire body is soft and warm surrounding me, tissue contracting ever so slightly in a gentle reminder of his dynamic _there_ ness. My fingers flex a rhythm into the flesh of his hips, instructing him on the undulating cadence our bodies will enjoy when we deign to indulge them. He doesn't move, his butterfly body pinned by mine, a truly unique specimen that I alone have gracing my collection of one. Still, I know that his skin heard my hands, that he is ready, prepared to begin.

Sliding out of him is an unmerciful ache and I hate to do it, only bothering because I know that in order to be back inside, I have to leave. The tight ring of his hole milks me, wringing and pulling in protest. His jaw shifts and clenches, his entire body ready to meet me on the return journey. We meet halfway, his ass stroking the skin stretched across my hipbones as I admire his fluid, feline grace. We both have that quality, though we differ in the execution of it. The contrast, I think, is a striking one, two feral cats caught in honey, lightning movements drawn out in amber. 

This lassitude allows me to savor every staccato flash of pleasure I feel as we again and again and _again again again_ meet and part and meet. My spine tingles, my skin hurts; the air is sharp as a knife and I find reprieve only where we touch. Our witnesses see two men fucking; we see one being worshipping its very existence. The acute delight of fucking as our joy in being. _Being._

Tight and becoming tighter, hot and getting hotter; this building friction fights us even as it brings us closer together. Pleasure washes over me, filling my lungs, supplanting the oxygen my body needs with this rarer substance that feeds my soul. My entire body vibrates with it, expanding and glowing in its excess, cock screaming my need to come, to finish. I crave standing in this light but cannot bear its presence. The fire is so alluring when you're sitting at its side, but step within its heart and you find an entirely new universe--one you cannot fathom for its infinitude. 

The pace has held steady, but our hearts have not; they beat erratically, frantically--the only sign either of us have that what we are doing cannot last much longer. We're riding each other and the devil is chasing us, but to all onlookers we have no care for our pursuer. This illusion is fracturing from the inside out; the clasp of his body is a siren and I am not inured to its call. My blood is begging me to let go, to flood him with myself, to ease this marvelous tension. I can hear his blood asking for the same, for mercy, compassion, benignancy. Something, anything, whatever I'm willing to give so long as I ease his gorgeous suffering. 

I'm not about to change course, not this close to the pinnacle. We'll find our resolution soon enough; I can feel my body reaching into him even as his twines with mine. We pull and tug, coaxing orgasm out with innate deftness, an adeptness we were born to share with none but each other. The sudden onrush of blinding pleasure that heralds my climax freezes me in place, buried deep within him. That crushing sensation is doubled by the scent and pressure of his own culmination, thick and binding as it holds me down and pours forth. 

I don't want to leave him; every moment I linger inside his body extends my pleasure, reminding me of why I need him so much, of why I do this _again and again and again_. Still, I withdraw, knowing that the mundane aspects associated with our mutual worship must be addressed. After I've done that, I ease his leg back onto the floor, subtly massaging now-aching muscles. Around us, the audience starts breathing again, although I doubt they've remembered to blink. I feel their stares penetrate the now-dissipating haze we build around us so I quickly retrieve our clothes. This encounter was merely an aperitif, something to whet our appetites for later delicacies--ones we will enjoy in a locale more conducive to our preferred type of leisure. 

My desire for him is sated only long enough to reach the exit and I cannot resist taking from him one last kiss before we leave, sending our just-stilling pulses back into frenzy. We should go home. _Now._


	8. Curious Moonlight

Walking to Babylon's backroom is like running a gauntlet--row upon row of bloodthirsty savages grabbing and pushing, testing and challenging; they all want to wedge themselves between us, as if to see if just this once, they can separate us and be the one we take back there. Not gonna happen, sorry; when we're like this, bodies thrumming and churning with indescribable need _now do it now do it now now NOW_ , we don't see them, don't hear them, can't feel them. They are nothing; we are everything. All things. Our reality has shrunk down to the dimensions of our bodies, to the exclusion of all else. Soon _soon_ that universe will be even more constricted, only large enough for the two of us if we're inside each other. My mind is chasing that thought in circles, snapping at its tail, spiraling inward. It's not until we hit the backroom door that I realize that I've managed to get in front of him, that I'm leading the way into this place. He's right behind me, letting me take control--for the moment. The metallic scrape of his heat wraps around me and his gaze sears the back of my neck, though, informing me of the way things will be once we get there. Right now, I lead. In a moment, he'll take over. And take. 

_Take and in the taking you shall give back tenfold. Take so that you may give. Take, and be taken in return. I take of you so that you may be taken._ The perfume of his skin is invading my senses, sending me ever higher. My pulse, already racing in time with the club's insane music, spins itself faster and faster. My heart knows what's coming, what's going to happen. It flutters with anticipation, greedy and aching with pure, unfettered want. I read somewhere about all the chemicals your body releases during sex and how they make you want more--some sort of drivel about mating and evolution and keeping the species going. They mentioned voles, too, the amusing irony of which didn't escape me. Humans, not all that different from rodents. I think my body is addicted to those chemicals, or more accurately to his. To the ones he creates, the ones my body only releases when it's him plowing into me, him holding me down and lifting me up. I'm an addict, I'm jonesing for a fix, and my body knows it's about to get a hit of the good stuff. Mouth watering, cock pulsing, skin tingling, fingers itching for a taste. A preview of what's to come.

_Deeper take me higher, take me, deeper higher taking_.

I want this to last, this my first fix of the night. He created this need, out on the dance floor, and now he's going to satisfy it. Nurture it, nourish it, feed this craving. I want it hard and fast and long and slow. I want it every way the backroom has never seen it. The men back here, they're addicts too. Wanting, needing the sensation, the connection. The thing is, they're crackheads trying to make do with cigarettes. The rush, such as it is, isn't enough; it can't even distract them from what they need, for even a minute. Pretty pathetic existence when a mouth on your cock can't make you feel good. I resist the urge to smirk; after all, I'm about to get a shot of the best stuff on earth, and they can watch, or not, but they can't have any. _Mine all mine hands off mine mine mine_.

He's closer now; close enough that the sexual gravity that pulls everyone to him starts to act on me too. Every atom in my body realigns itself, tugging me to him. Each step is a monumental effort; my body screams to let go, give in and float back to him. Join him, be taken. _Taken._ Then it happens; his fingers wrap around my wrist and all of a sudden every nerve in my body exists in that narrow strip of skin. My cock feels his hand, my ankles fight the restraint, my throat gasps for air as it constricts. I dare to look at him, even though I know the view will make me weaker--if it's possible for me to be any more so than I am now. A strong thought would tip me over and leave me a puddle at his feet. I'd still be reaching for him, though. _Wanting._

The randomly moving air molecules between us shift and scurry and I know _know_ he's about to move, about to take my mouth but I can't do shit about it; I'm stuck in that gravitational field. Like I'd actually not want _this_. Oh god his mouth, his tongue, the taste of him is suffocating me in moonlight. I can't see, it's so strong, overwhelming, ferally aggressive as he takes, stealing harshly. There is no air between us; his body against mine and mine against something holding me upright. I'm trapped, caged the way he likes me to be, like some sort of prey he's tracked down and captured. I'm his favorite quarry; willing but not yielding, hunted but not resigned, surrendered but not docile. I'll fight to the end, and even past it--but I'll fight with him. For him. He has me where he wants me, but that's not important. I have him where I want him, and I didn't have to do a damned thing to get him there. And they call me easy. 

My cock is talking, _Come on come on come on come on_ , speaking an endless litany of it-wants-something-tangible. We want something. Anything, just give it to us. I know there's something coming, and I want it now. When he leaves my mouth I protest; give me back that which is mine you _fuck harder, bite down, draw blood, it's yours-mine-yours, take-take-give-take_ oh god he knows what that does to me, knows how it destroys my mind. I can't think can't find words am left _more more climb inside and take some more._

He moves away and I'm bereft, left stranded and unsupported. The universe expands unwillingly to include the space between us, a space quickly contracted as my hands find his shirt and my mouth his skin. We're a writhing, twisting sculpture, made more _there_ and more beautiful by each bit we cast off. His skin is sweat and spice and already tastes like come, as if it's bubbling just below the surface. Seething, twisting, waiting to find me. _Mine, mine alone, belonging on my tongue, in my body, within my hands. Mine._

I think I'm moving again; dark and light splashes of some other reality flit across my retinas. The way my leg is moving lets me know what's what and I catch it over the sofa and hey, there are people on this thing. I can feel their eyes sucking my cock. Yeah, you'd like that, wouldn't you? Touch it and draw back a nub, asshole; that belongs to the god behind me. He's put me on display, his prize possession, the most precious item ever given to him. I gave it myself, including no gift receipt, and now that he's finally found a place in his life-loft-hand for me, he's become fond of praising himself for his good taste. He likes to show me off, just like he's doing now. I get the impression that this is going to be an extended display of looking-at-what-you-can't-have. They all know his measure, literally and figuratively. By the time he's done, they'll know that they're doubly lost, since he'll never let them have at me. Ever. 

I'm grateful for the support, already letting it take some of my weight and knowing it'll bear more in a few short minutes. His hands are on me, petting and measuring and _oh god again_ yeah, right there, go ahead, I want you inside. But the air is shifting again, my skin tracking his lips as they trail down my spine. A sudden chill strikes as he breathes in and _god oh god, inside hard-wet-slick-hard_ twisting-scraping-twisting _so fucking hard_. My mouth drops open, gaping as my head rolls back. There's a ceiling somewhere, but not in this universe. This reality is nothing but him and me, and right now most of that existence has boiled down to his tongue and my hole and _what the fuck_. Stretching, pulling, there's more of him inside me, his tongue doing _that_ a few times for good measure. I can hear my voice, clear as a morning sky. I'm wailing, screaming, the sounds reverberating on the insides of my skull. Most of the noise is contained; only a few whimpers escape. I wonder if he can hear both sounds--the few I deign to share with the room, or the plaintive cries meant only for him-and-me. I put out of my mind everyone watching us; they are nothing but matter-standing-as-witness, mere formalities to this proceeding. We are the only things really here, in both mind and body, fingers and tongues stirring us together, mixing us up and I can feel him wanting more. His tongue is desperate, searching for something that only another part of him can find. 

Then fingers, unnaturally slick and somewhat cooler than the blood-heat I prefer. They're spread open and I can feel it, the head of his cock, nudging between them. Laying in wait, whispering to my hole, teasing-torturing-teasing. My body reacts instinctively. We are prey but we don't give up without a fight. If you want, you have to take. _So take. Force the issue, push, shove, take it. Take me. Make me submit, make me open myself to you. Waiting is hell so take this wanting away._ He owns me, but I make him prove that ownership again and again. Every goddamned time, so he never takes it for granted. Every time, so he never will. 

This taking begins at a pace not unlike that of spring thawing the winter; so slow that acceleration is imperceptible, too slow _speed the fuck up, come on move faster you fucking cock_. He's on my back, mouth consuming my neck, shrinking our universe so very slowly. My ass is screaming at him, my mouth wide open, voice silently pleading for mercy, throat aching with need. He's here, next to me, breath warming me. We stare together into the infinite nothingness we're creating _so slowly_. My ass is spreading open, millimeter by millimeter, every muscle fiber relaxing individually. Their voices join mine, this erotic choir chanting his name, begging, sending up wordless prayers. Our offerings fall on deaf ears as the head of his cock pushes on _shrieking ripping pressure flooding, move-move-move you can't stay there oh god you're not leaving, please god have mercy on fucking deeper go on let me come the pleasure hurts so goddamn much_. Existence slips from my grasp and I'm lost, adrift on an excruciating sea of desiring-reprieve. He's merciless, never straying from his path and it takes at least a decade for him to move past my prostate. I'm so caught up in the momentary relief that I don't immediately notice that he's there. _There_ and we are joined. Our reality is shrink-wrapped around us now, pulling us tight, sealing this union. There is no exit, no way back. No way out. We are. _United._

I can hear him, his fingers softly speaking and thus I listen, body calming so I can hear his words. I let myself ebb and flow around him, waiting for the cue to begin. To come into being, to become. The first slide out is a crime, one I endure only because of that _empty-filling-opening_ sensation that is his return. I can't help protesting, grasping him, bringing him back into me. We undulate, skin stroking skin, my cock commiserating with his as he fucks me and I fuck air. Right now both of us are plunging into insane tightness, gasping and reaching. He's riding me and I'm riding his cock, holding him prisoner as he holds me down, prey enslaving predator. 

He's drawing this out, taking it slow. Normally we'd be mindlessly rutting by now, our choreographed dance breaking down into furious thrashing. This time we're maintaining the pace, maddening though it may be. My body is caterwauling, my blood clawing at my veins, cock and balls protesting this steady flood of sensation that is battering away at my mind. I can feel myself coming but I'm not; it's a hallucination brought on by memories of what we could be doing. It's so real, though, so very _there_ , mocking my continued arousal. 

We're almost there, nearly to the finish; soul-shattering pleasure has filled every corner of our beings. My skin is starting to orgasm, the tingling beauty of it spreading like frost melting from my toes and fingers, creeping stealthily towards my cock. The same thing is happening to him, his body listening to mine as each part of me separately concedes to him victory in whatever-we're-doing. I tighten around him, then constrict once again, making it impossibly difficult for him to remove himself from me. He doesn't want to be out of me anyway, so why should I make it easy on him? I let myself listen, allow myself to hear what he's saying and that does it; our whispers slide together until we're saying the same thing, our bodies echoing the words, jaws clenched in waiting-for- _fuck there it is_ slamming into us over and over. It washes over us, cleansing us of our impurities, burning away the rough patches and fading scars. 

His cock pulses inside me, mimicking my own body's convulsions. Every stream is matched, filling and emptying simultaneously. The after is at least as good as the now we just shared; the pleasure is less intense but being able to breathe makes it very satisfying. His weight against my back grounds me as our reality expands with every exhalation, thinning and stretching until those around us can't tell that they're in world completely separate from ours. The illusion has shifted, and so must we. I protest the loss, even though I know it's a necessity. 

I glance around as we retreat, measuring the expressions on our audience's faces. Do they even know what they saw? Perhaps they simply witnessed an elegant power play, predator taking down prey. Did any of them see the worship, hear the prayers? Could they have comprehended the union, its inherent equality, how taking and being taken were so muddled there was no difference between the two? He took me, yes, but in order to do so I had to take him and in ways that far overshadowed his taking of me. 

Then his lips are on mine again and I decide that I don't give a damn. We're going home so we can do this again and again and again, but with fewer people and more precision, in a place where I can wail as loudly with my voice as I do with my mind.


	9. Curious Moonlight

I love the way the elevator in Brian's building creaks and groans; each aching sound elicits an echo in my mind and my body. When I first noticed my reaction, I chalked it up to simple conditioning; as often as Brian sucked or fucked me in this elevator it was no wonder I responded to its gentle complaints. Even now, I won't deny that particular effect; the only times I've stood in this elevator and not gotten hard was when someone sexually off-putting was with me--my mother, Mikey, the munchers. If I'm alone, or with Brian, or even someone like Emmett, it happens. I find it vaguely amusing. 

There's more to it, though, than simple sexual associations. If I quiet my body a bit, shove aside the pleasant rush of gonna-get-laid, I can hear this quiet whisper, just behind my left ear. _Home home home home home_ it says, warm tones curling in my brain and settling on the back of my tongue. Those sounds tell me I'm almost home, approaching the place where I stay. 

The loft is home, even when it's not my official residence, and has been since that first night. I left my heart here the night Gus was born; its scattered amongst our clothes, his expensive shit, my drawings, the condoms, the toys, the puddles of come and blood and tears we've both left on every surface. I embedded it into the walls with my fingerprints, ingrained it in the floor with every ecstatic wail, and plastered it to the ceiling during my nightmares. My heart is here, in this loft, and although Brian chucks the rest of my body out on occasion, he's never bothered to evict my heart. He has to know it's here; after all he's forced to hide from it whenever he brings a trick into this place. Maybe that's why he's cut back so much, at least at home. _Home home home home home_ The loft is home to many memories, good and bad, and I'd like to think we'd both prefer the balance to favor the former over the latter.

I know I would. _Home_.

Brian brings me back into the present by way of some casual groping, stroking my cock like I'm a well-loved pet cat. Feline I may be, but I'm most assuredly not a pussy--something my cock seeks to remind him. I can feel the part of me he utterly controls taking over, literally sucking all my attention away from this lazy introspection I do when he's not actively fucking me. Oh, I'm not complaining; we do our best talking when our mouths are full of each other and the only sounds our throats make sound like a Discovery Channel soundtrack. I don't mind talking to myself, though, but it's impossible when he's got any part of himself focused on me. _Home. I am his home._

He must not be planning anything especially sudden, since he lets go of me when we reach his floor. He doesn't need both hands to get the loft door open, but tonight he actually leaves me standing in front of the elevator. The door is a somewhat curious structure, its transparent camouflage extremely effective at hiding what lies behind it. It is scarred and dented, roughhewn and utilitarian, and quite possibly the most erotic part of Brian's loft. The door reminds me a lot of Brian himself; they both demand to be taken at face value, to be appraised on the merits of what the casual glance can find. They are in-your-face, abrupt and unyielding--unapologetically hard. Brian's illusion is his perfection, the door's is its ugliness. I've been closer to both than most people can claim, and I know better. Brian's beauty lies in his imperfections, in the rough patches he claims not to have. Every part of my body has been intimately introduced to that door; it held me up through more than one fuck, kept me in the loft when I wanted to run and locked me out when I wanted in. I see past its marred surface and see now its strength, its steadfastness. The thing has an uncomplaining patience to it, ungreased track aside. 

I can almost hear it welcoming me home as Brian leads me through it tonight _Welcome home home home home home_. We work together to close the thing, lock it and set the precious alarm, lest whatever-we-have suffers though another robbery. Brian's loft has been emptied twice since he met me--once due to my fallibility and once thanks to his honor. I don't care to speculate on what would happen if the place went through that again, for any reason. Masochism is a trait I'm not planning to cultivate in either of us.

His eyes are on me now, touching the places his hands were just a few minutes before. He keeps the pressure light, simply reminding me of why we cut our evening short--some things are better done here, and we'd best be getting to them. His mouth is just inches from mine, breath sliding down my face in a warm rush. I want to kiss, to taste and feel; he pulls back with that trademark smirk. Someday I'm going to kiss him until he forgets how to make that expression. He spins on one heel and stalks away, head tossed back in regal disdain. Before I can get too pissed off at his teasing arrogance, I notice just where he's going. 

The shower has always been one of my favorite parts of the loft. _Home._


	10. Curious Moonlight

He's thinking again. At some point between us leaving getting into the car at Babylon and exiting it here at home, he managed to cool off enough for his brain to re-engage. If I wasn't so confident about my place in his life, I'd be insulted. We're standing in the elevator, the scene of several memorable fucks, and he's thinking. Then again, so am I. I'm thinking about how the sensation of the elevator carrying us skyward makes my dick hard. The longer I stand here, swaying slightly with the movements of this decrepit piece of shit, the harder I get. My mouth waters and my fingers itch with barely restrained desire. I want to touch him. Feel him. Consume him all at once, or maybe bit by bit. Drink him down so I can fill him up. 

And he's thinking. I can tell, though, that there's nothing serious weighing down his mind right now. If there was, he'd have that little half-frown on his face and his eyes would be cloudy and pale. No, whatever he's thinking about is either pleasant or meaningless--or both. This is busywork thinking; nothing more than something to do to pass the time. I adore how he does that, lets his mind fill up the empty spaces in his day with something besides the satin-finished boredom that most people his age prefer. 

Justin thinking is very hot. Watching him think turns me on almost as much as his body does. More, sometimes, when he's thinking about me, or what he wants to do to me, or what he wants me to do to him. He thinks, and I'm fucked. Even when his thinking ends up in me fucking him until he can't walk, I'm the one who's fucked. Why? Because every damned time I fall in love with him a little bit more. It's stupid that I can find more reasons to love the little twit, but I do. How he so seriously ponders the worthiness of whole-grain versus rye bread for roast beef sandwiches. Or whether to buy a rubber or silicone dildo, considering the latter's limitations on our lube selection. The boy is a natural scientist, always weighing, always judging but without passing judgment. 

Maybe that's how it came to be that he is in possession of my heart. He thought about it enough and decided that he'd take better care of it than I would. And the more I think about it, the more I agree with him. The danger inherent in letting him in is far less than what I'd face if I kept it locked up like I used to. He's got good hands; slender, nimble and far stronger than they look. He cradles my heart like it's something rare and precious and not some gold-electroplated bauble he got out of a candy machine at the mall. I found my heart in a Crackerjack box and shoved it in a drawer with all the other discarded toys. He found it, dusted it off, and all of a sudden it's worth something. 

Shortly thereafter, or maybe before, he gave me his--suddenly and without ceremony. He just handed it over, between the bills and the poppers. Pay for the cable and the heat, Brian. Here's my heart, you might not want to misplace it. You forgot to put the poppers in the fridge. I'd like to say that I carry his heart around with me, but I don't. It's too fucking big and it would ruin the lines of my precious Armani. Instead, I leave it lying around the loft, _our home,_ where it has pretty much taken over. No one who visits sees it, but that's because it's everywhere. It's like looking for air--you can't see it, but it's there. Here, there, everywhere. 

_God, I want him._

I can't resist touching him--just a casual stroke-and-grab. I can feel his thoughts slow, floating in a lazy spiral. If I keep this up much longer, he'll be in that place where his body demands attention and his brain is just along for the ride. I like him like that; he's easy that way. Then again, so am I. We're well-matched. Complete sluts where the other is concerned. Relationships aren't supposed to be based on sex, right? Wrong. Ours is and it suits us fine...most of the time, anyway. Better than if we'd tried to make it work based on our movie and music preferences, or our personal philosophies. The very thought makes my eyes roll. 

I want him somewhat coherent, at least for a few more minutes, so when the elevator stops I let him go. Besides, I like watching his reaction when he first sees the door. I doubt he realizes I know how much the fucking door turns him on--though I think it's obvious, given how often I fuck him against it. Maybe it's the texture of rusting steel scraping his back, or maybe it's what the door symbolizes in his labyrinthine mind. Whatever the reason, the door is one of his erogenous zones. Hell, the loft is one big hot spot for both of us, but the door is unusually sensitive for him. If I didn't already have plans for the night, I'd take him against it, here on the outside. Something as useful as that door can't be christened too many times, in my opinion. 

And then we're inside and the door is closed and we're _home_ ; well, he's home. I've been home all night--touching home, kissing home, fucking home like he might disappear if I let go even for a second. _Home._

He's letting his mind wind back up, but that's not what I want. I want him the way I always want him after a session at Babylon: naked, wet and soapy. Hot, wet, slippery blonde boy sliding down to pool at the base of my cock. So I tease, just a little; my breath skids across his skin and my lips ache to touch, to draw in the taste I know is waiting for me. But I don't; I let myself suffer for a moment. A little delay of gratification never hurt anyone. 

As I turn away, I feel his eyes slapping my back and I can't help but smirk. He may hate me now, but he'll be thanking me soon enough.


	11. Curious Moonlight

The billowing clouds of steam that surround Justin as he joins me in the shower remind me that the water is probably too hot for him; I automatically set it to my preference, which is far warmer than he likes. I love the way hot water sears my skin, telling me I'm alive with every stinging drop. Breathing in all that moisture makes my lungs feel thick and full. The air feels slow and heavy like syrup, each movement muddled and deliberate. 

_Standing on a cloud, watching the universe fly by my soul_

When I reach for the water taps, however, he stops me. Already I can see his skin blushing from the heat, its ivory surface flush with blood and a swirling mixture of once-and-future desire. It's a good look for him--in my opinion, the one he was born to wear. He looks so fucking _alive_ like that, body vibrating in place, lips parted, eyes liquid. Like this, he is seduction incarnate--a naked and sexualized angel, mislaid by God. In his innocence he has wandered into my lair and now that I have him here, I'll never let him go. 

_Halo askew, caught on a horn; feathers leaden from steam, damp and warm_

Since he doesn't seem to be minding the heat, I waste no more time in getting him under the spray. We slide together, slick limbs twining and locking-unlocking-locking. Water tastes better after it's been blessed by touching him, so I drink of it, following rivulets down his neck to his belly. His hands are in my hair, tugging and petting, slowing my descent so that when my knees hit the tile, it's a gentle landing. Looking upwards, I'm caught by the sight of him, hair darkened by water, eyelashes glistening with dew. His mouth is open, lips curved into a lusty smirk--he knows what's coming, knows I can't resist, knows I never could. 

_I give you this offering, cut from the cloth that is my blood_

Water pours over us, sliding down him and onto me, washing me clean. It scours us both, boiling us with its heat, carrying his scent onto my skin. I'm being infused with him, his being eradicating whatever might have existed before him. 

_Washed clean_

His cock is hard, jutting out at me. An offering, from this heavenly creature led most assuredly astray by me, and one I won't bother to turn down. I need this, need to take him in and let him wash away my sins. Let him wash away the gaze of our pathetic following; cleanse me of their lust and wanting.

_Lay me bare, strip everything away until all that's left is you and me._

He slides in effortlessly, hips jutting forward as I wrap my fingers around them. I'm overwhelmed by the taste of him, sharp and perfect. Having him in my mouth makes my cock jump and my skin laugh; we're where we want to be.

_Dancing in place; arch into me now, seat yourself on my heart_

It only takes the slightest of suggestions to have his hands back in my hair, his hips gliding forward to meet my mouth. He fucks my face with fluid grace, each snap of his hips echoing the cries I can't contain. My own hips twitch in sympathy, fucking steamy air and searing water. Lips, tight but soft, dragging up and down the length of him. They catch on every ridge, bend and mold around the veins. My tongue can't help but delve into his slit, wanting what he has yet to give to me. I want that, want it more with every scrape against the roof of my mouth and nudge at the back of my throat. 

_Fill me with yourself, fuck yourself with me, find again what you left behind this morning_

I want more--more of him, more of myself-inside-him, so while he's busy shoving himself inside me, I return the favor. His ass is tight, only slightly relaxed from heat and sex, still swollen and soft from the backroom. I forgo sliding in favor of shoving, meeting him on a backstroke so I can revel in the groan the move draws forth. He's thrusting harder now, trying to find my own ass by way of my tongue. Harder, thicker, blood throbbing against my lips and _this_ is washing away everything but the immortal instant of right now. 

_Eyes pinning, cock impaling, heart binding_

I push fingers from my free hand inside him, spreading his ass open. Water flows between my fingers, drizzling sensation across the nerve endings there. He gasps and groans, his rhythm unsteady. I hold him open, crooking my fingers. I can almost feel them in my mouth, holding me open wider for his cock. I can't stand it when he withdraws, so I suck harder, keeping him inside. I want him inside me, want to be inside him, and mostly want to never exist outside of this being-with-him. How can I, when only this makes me pure?

_Water we were borne of, and to water we shall return. What goes on in between flows forth from the beginning and its conclusion_

The taste on my tongue says he's getting closer--a fact made more clear by the way he's pulling at my hair. He's riding my fingers and my tongue, cock and ass given over to me for his own pleasure. His cries are even more beautiful than usual as they echo off the stall, letting my ears enjoy over and over again what other parts of me have long reveled in experiencing.

_His pleasure_

I'm almost begging him to come, to finish what he started when he was born. Wipe the slate clean, empty yourself and fill me up, make me whole and beautiful inside, let me be all the time what is only seen when your eyes look upon me. I need to hear him fall silent and then pitch forward into screaming, need to feel his cock swell and stretch my jaw, need to have my fingers clenched in his hole as he pours forth. 

_Give me an offering I can return to you tenfold, let me be the supplicant at your altar, I am here only for what you wish to give unto me_

And then it's there, in a flash of sudden stillness. He freezes deep in my throat, ass grinding my fingers to meal. A moment, then another, and I am filled, balm taking the place of vitriol, spice overpowering bitterness. I hear my name, drawn out over the course of decades, each sound rising up and smothering me in welcoming, moist warmth. 

_Now, now I am pure_


	12. Curious Moonlight

I swear that the plumbing in the loft isn't running water, but essence of Brian. Thick, fragrant steam clings to me as I stand just inside the stall, beckoning me deeper into its watery depths. Hot, cloudy vaporized Brian, seeping into my skin and filling my lungs. His voice, misty, echoed in millions of dust-fine droplets, sinking deep and filtering down into my blood. 

_I am here/here is where I am/am I here/here is you and you are me/we are_

The water is too hot, hot enough to make my head spin and my heart beat erratically. When he goes to lower the temperature, I stop him; I'd rather endure the scorching steam than lose its presence--lose him, lose out on being infused with him. It's his presence inside me that makes me real; this ephemeral, swirling version of his being that gives solidity to mine. The way he's looking at me makes the steam spark and shudder. It's awe and fear and predatory lust, stripping me down to skin and want. 

_Take me, make me real, make me yours, take what is yours, make taking me real_

And then he's here, _here_ and _there_ there, knotting us together. His tongue on my neck, sliding-gliding-flying downward, spiraling around me too fast for me to follow. My skin aches to have him next to me again. Every inch that's not underneath his hands is fighting for that right, trembling, knowing that what's coming is heaven but not caring. My body is a selfish, needful thing. It wants. I want. 

_I want you, here where no one but you and I want anything but what we have to give, here where you want me_

I'm captivated by him, slick with water, skin glowing from the heat. He's the only man I've ever seen who looks as powerful on his knees as he does on his feet. He's down there and I'm up here, but I'm the supplicant and he's the god. He may be servicing me, but I'm worshipping him. 

_This need shall take us_

We're caught, frozen in place under a torrent of scalding heat. Our motionlessness is an affront to the melting inferno that surrounds us and I'm seething, blood boiling, teeth gnashing with need. I need him. _This_.

_I am taken by this need_

And _oh god oh god I'm where he is and_ his mouth is where I was suffering the lack of it only a moment ago. He's inside and outside, two parts of a magnet slamming together, shattering me as I'm caught in between. He replaces the pieces without effort, remaking me in this image I cannot begin to fathom. I am whole only when he is disassembling me. Made real by my dissolution. 

_Take me, break me, make me whole_

Sometimes he wants nothing more than to sit on the floor and suck my cock, taking his sweet time about it. Savoring, tasting, exploring as though it was the first cock he'd ever sucked and not the thousandth. This is not one of those times; tonight he wants the other, where I fuck his face, thrusting across his tongue like his mouth was his ass. He's urging me higher, harder, deeper, fingers digging into my skin, tongue slicing deep and pushing me forward-back-forward. He's consuming me, filling me with the desire for emptiness. 

_God he is breaking god breaking me is he taking god breaking I need this need taking_

His lips almost distracted me from the feel of his fingers pushing inside, hard and rough. The only thing that keeps it from being painful is my residual looseness from earlier. Still, his fingers feel as thick as a cock, stretching me, _tense_ and shivering. I can't help but push harder, fucking his mouth more _he wants_ more of me inside him. Him inside me, more until that's all that exists. Him _there_ where I am waiting. Waiting.

_Climb inside, I don't mind, I want you here with me there_

My body can't cry for more, not when I'm overwhelmed by what I have already, but he keeps going. And _fucking god_ I'm held open, water raining down into me, burning me, turning me around and inside out and over the edge. I want to stay inside but I can't, not when those fingers are pulling me out but he's _stay_ sucking me in, keeping me in, pulling me in two. I'm pinned, _perfectly placed_ where he wants me to be. 

_I existed before him only in theory; he has made me this-who-I-am and so this-what-he-does is my existence-made-real_

I can't see the steam anymore, although I can feel it inside me, pulsing with every stroke-and-thrust-and-glide-and-tug. I can't see or hear anything but him-and-me, screaming _streaming_ crying _dying_. I think I've crawled inside him, or is he inside me? I can't feel anything but him and what he owns, which is all of me now. We are inside each other, looking inward at each other and outward at ourselves. Where we end we begin again, around twisting together, the serpent with no terminal point. Ouroboros. 

_He is my pleasure_

He's calling to me, demanding my body's obedience. _Come for me_ and what do I do? I do nothing; my body answers with a sweeping arc of _as you wish_ flooding down my skin and into _where you are_ , where nothing lays in wait but _what you are_. What we are, what we've become over and _under_ and over again.

_Why would you take by force that which you could have freely if you would only but ask for it?_

My body celebrates its capitulation, rising and falling into him with ecstatic wonder. His joy echoes mine, magnifying it, reveling in what he's drawn out of me. It is his, it always has been his and he knows it. This knowledge is his succor, the salve he needs when we cannot be as we are now. This _my_ god rejoices in his splendor, in his effortless creation. 

_In me._


	13. Curious Moonlight

He's too far away, _down there_ on his knees. _Down there_ where I should be. I read this book once, when the WASPs at St. James were trying, and largely failing, to be diverse. Zora Neale Hurston was no fool. Kissing on the feet, that's no good. It's kissing on the mouth that counts, that carries us through the night when moonlight abandons us for something purer. I'm up here, basking alone in what we should be sharing.

_Down where I already am_

I can't decide who's being selfish here; me for getting off or him for withholding his own pleasure. He knows how much I crave it, how I shake and beg for his release. I need it more than I need my own, even when I'm about to go insane from want. That insanity isn't my body's need to find reprieve. No, it's a mad, irrational urge to have his reach inside me for his own perfection, his climax. 

_Down inside where height doesn't begin to describe where we are_

I can't stand to be separated from him like this, unbalanced sensation knocking me senseless. I want to surround him, engulf him, wind myself around him. I wish I had more arms to hold him, longer legs to pin him, stronger hands to keep him steady when he falls. _Fallen, falling higher and up until we're there_. I want to shield him from this fiery rain, even though it's me who needs protection from the impact of it, burning my skin with every impact. It might be hotter, but I know he prefers my warmth. It drives away the cold, but I drive away everything bad--just like he does for me. 

_Driving down, pushing out and back in_

He's surprised to see me when I reach him, eyes unable to hide the shock as I wrap myself around him. He never expects my strength, even though he's felt it a thousand times by now; still each time I reach for him his body tingles with welcoming delight at this forever-unknown steadfastness. 

_I know what you need_

We're melting together, skin slickly bonding. I can taste his sweat, even through the wash of water and the various chemicals he smears on himself. He's tense-relaxed-tense, muscles confused by the heady atmosphere and the lack of sexual release. It doesn't understand his mind's games, getting me off without a reciprocal gift for himself. He's not attacking me, not moving at all really. His face is pressed against my shoulder, breath pushing water droplets this way and that. His knees have to be killing him on the tile, leaving bruises. It's not like he's got padding there--or much of anywhere. Just like I like him. All Brian, no filler. 

_What I need, when I want for nothing at all_

So I hold him tighter, since he's not telling me to stop. I need him, need this connection. This closeness _closer_ that I crave, feeling his heart pounding erratically, jumping and jolting when I move my hands or lick his skin. I suck on his collarbones and revel in the way he twitches and twists, trying to escape only to get closer. _Closer_ to me, to what I can give him. _Giving back what he gave me, folded over and returned tenfold_. He's falling into a mood, I can tell. What kind, though, is a mystery, even to me who knows him better than most. That's not saying much--like saying that a monk knows god better than the layman, just because he spends his days fucking with his soul instead of his cock. Knowing that the iceberg is bigger than what you can see above the water doesn't mean you truly grasp how enormous it is. The nature of Brian Kinney is to be unknown. 

_Driving into the darkness, tumbling into black, knowing you hold me safe in your mouth_

That doesn't bother me; it draws me closer to him. I'm addicted to walking down this twisting road, with its switchback turns and blind curves. He's here, somewhere, waiting around a bend, wanting me to find him, to bring him home. Cradle him in my arms, take him into my body, let him relax and sleep and rest his weary mind. He's trembling with it, with what he's holding back. It's that guarded vulnerability that spurs me on, that makes me hold him tighter. My hands don't resist touching, stroking, coaxing him closer. We communicate by touch, we sing by fucking. I want him to tell me what's on his mind, on his body, what's curling itself around him and holding him down. Stretch up and let me see, let me know. 

_Driven, we are driven to find this, driven to seek each other within ourselves, driven to become_

I can take it, so give it to me. Let me in and I'll surprise you, Brian. No matter what it is you think is holding you down, I can bear it. I can carry anything you can throw at me, I can bear your weight on my shoulders with nary a sound. You are weightless to my arms, a burden I scarcely feel for the simple pleasure of having it near. Whatever it is that you think you have to fight alone, hand it over to me. That's why I'm here; you fight my battles and I'll fight yours. Shieldbrothers is what we are, guarding each other as we kneel twisted like serpents on this wet floor. Rain falls down, clouds suffocate us, but we are safe. Guarded by what-we-are. 

_Driving in circles, circling each other, circling prey_

He's coming around now, body and mind finally figuring out that I'm here, that he's hard and wanting and unfulfilled, that I am comfortable but the floor is not. It's a tiny shift, just a few tendons tightening in the right direction, and now I'm not just wound around him; he's wound around me too. We're back to the ouroboros, ending begetting the beginning, alpha scrawled inside omega. We are. 

_This is_

And we've yet to become, but we're getting there. 

_Here, we are_


	14. Curious Moonlight

His essence burns even as it heals, sliding down my throat like so many scalpels. Instrument of beneficent torture, splitting me with effortless sensuality. He is inside me, pricking at my blood, smearing bright splashes of blue and yellow and green alongside my normal, broody red. It's a pleasant contrast to the musky smell of him, only slightly diluted by the water still dancing over his skin. My nose is buried in the juncture of his thighs, and if I could, I would never move. 

_Anchored, tethered by my own hands' work_

There's something missing from this taste, something I can't quite pinpoint. The bouquet of his climax is ever strong and sure, but this one, it was hollow--tinged with a grayish regret. I wanted, and he gave, and he enjoyed the giving as much as I reveled in the taking. The afterglow is pale, though, and streaked with that-which-I-cannot-name. Not that I'd change anything; I needed this, to force him to let me submit and be taken. Take my dominance, make it your own. 

_Stand above me, under my feet holding my arms around your neck_

He's moving, although I'd rather he didn't; I'm still wallowing in the afterglow of getting what I wanted, of giving in and letting myself worship at the only altar I recognize. His movement is like a tourist walking into a cathedral during mass--technically acceptable but more than a bit disturbing. My tongue forgets its Latin and trips over the more brutal English it only learned so I could talk to commoners. When his cock leaves the space around my mouth I want to weep, to scowl and reach for him and bring it back. Mine, _mine_ , only yours by my generosity. Steam diffuses the light that shines from him, rendering him hazy but still illuminated. 

_Do not part with me except to cleave unto me once again_

When that too-familiar face appears in front of me I can't help but blink; perhaps his moving wasn't such a bad thing after all. He's twined himself around me, holding me steady and grounding me. Until he did that I wasn't aware of how close I was to just drifting away, to being washed down the drain and pushed down and out into some stagnant pool of having-what-I-have. My skin welcomes him, reaching out to draw him nearer. He's hotter than the water, smoother and more supple. For him I would give up the heat of our shower, the comfort of this steam. 

_Be the light that warms me, that drives away the shadows that bore me into this world_

Of course, his proximity reminds me that I'm still hard, still achingly wanting. My cock stands painfully erect, screaming for the release it's childishly demanding. I've spoiled my body, always giving it what it wants, always swearing that I was thinking of it first. How can I, though, when this more-than-half of me is holding me up, elevating me to my own level? I wonder if he can sense himself inside of me, if he can see how much of me he possesses simply by breathing. Words spoken aloud may have power, but this mutually agreed-upon silence is more powerful still, binding us together in its spell. I couldn't speak now if I wanted to--the words simply wouldn't dare roll across my tongue. They're afraid to tarnish the bright shine of the something he's draped over my shoulders, of disturbing our delicate but unending dance. 

_He is changing me without changing a thing_

He's sorting me out, pairing up the mismatched parts of my soul _two by two we walk this world_ and sweeping up the tattered bits of me I've thrown into ill-used corners of myself. He's a wonder at disentangling my passive-aggressive soul, always ignoring my bluster and seeing clearly that I've given him free reign over the cluttered study of my mind. He can read anything he wants, if only he can find it. I won't stop him, but I won't help him either. He's a sucker for a good challenge, and I'm nothing if not difficult to understand. I don't consciously present myself that way; it's second nature for me. If below the surface I'm complicated enough, everyone will leave me the fuck alone. Except for him. He gleefully ignores the 'beware of Brian' signs and climbs the fence, carrying around a pocket of affection to assuage my inner cock. If he wasn't so easily charmed by everything he finds, he'd have me all figured out by now. My soul is fractured, but some of the bits are shiny, and he's a crow forever distracted by them. His nest is full of pieces of me, decorating it like so much glitter. I'm worth nothing but what value he bestows upon me. 

_Valued to the point of being priceless, paying for myself with what I've left behind_

He has so fucking much of me, holding it safe and slowly piecing it back together. His love is an unshakable bond, one I revere even as I excoriate it. Perhaps if I vilify it enough, no one else will notice how precious it is. He is _mine_. He is mine, and he is me. More me than I am, to be sure, and suddenly my soul craves to visit itself, to at least for a moment rest in wholeness. It leaps and strains against its restraints, wanting me to let it surge forward, to shake off what I've draped over its eyes and put itself back together all at once. It wants to tell Justin how it feels, how I feel, how I know that he knows, that I know him and how he knows me. 

_Take my want, turn it into need and give it back as desire_

I'm so close to doing it, to giving in and letting him know he's got control. I want to relax, to see how much he can take, how far he can push us to put me back together. I'm tired of carrying myself around, of constantly taking care not to let anyone have anything. I want to acknowledge how much I've let him, and only him, have. Does he know that I'm waiting for him, just outside the sunlight? Can he see me, straining to touch him even though he's miles away from me? I want to take this everycolored _what-it-is_ and throw it wide, let it soar and flutter back down on our joined bodies, encompass us and declare us _made_. Made, or born. 

_Born in a world of made, two crawling down the same path_

It's time, as it has been before and will be again, to welcome him back to where he's always been. Come inside, thaw me by this fire, lay me down and make us comfortable in our skin. In your skin, where mine finds itself written in teeth and sideways glances. Hold me open and let me go, I'll only fall back upon you when I crash back to earth. 

_To you_

I am here, if you will only take yourself to me. 

_To me_


	15. Curious Moonlight

We're frozen here, kneeling underneath a torrent of falling water. Stuck, struck by the want that's curled around us. It started out soft as silk, slowly tightening and strengthening and now we find ourselves bound with steel, holding us immobile. I want, but the words to ask for what I want lay sleeping in my throat. _How can I want what I cannot ask for?_ My voice is paralyzed, made silent by translucent glass layers I've let coat me like glaze. My façade, too perfectly applied to be cracked by simple want.

My body knows what it wants and unlike my voice it has no problem with begging. I can feel the beginnings of it now; my shoulders shift just a fraction, thighs spreading ever so slightly, fingers sliding in their grip. _I cannot let my want split the air between us, but this begging is silent in its screaming._ Aching, almost-painful churning in the pit of my stomach. Want growing, lifting its dark leathery leaves to my blonde-boy sun, blooming, pale petals deepening to bloody darkness. Want has come to its fruition, and now I need. _Need._

_Needing, as a precursor to taking, giving, and having. Becoming._ Part of my want is for Justin to get us out of this position. I could do it myself, pull us to our feet and fumble for a towel, but that would be admitting my needs. My mind whispers and seethes that it will allow me to want, to need, so long as that weakness is never admitted. I can love Justin, so long as I never say it out loud. So instead of offering up my surrender, I place it right at his feet, so he can't ignore it without tripping and falling flat on his face. _Untangle this web, catch yourself in it and bind yourself to me again._

Surely he can feel it, sense the way my body is vibrating, shivering with need. I can't feel the heat from the shower anymore; all I can sense is him, his presence banishing the shadows in favor of soothing sunlight. I wonder what I would find if I opened my eyes; shower-slicked boy or sun incarnate? Damn it, can't you hear me, hear the way my body is calling for you to take over? _I'm begging on my knees, asking only that you take me on. Again._

And then he's _there_. Hands steady and guiding, urging me upwards. He lets me rest my head on his shoulder as he takes care of this-and-that, turning the water off and locating towels. I'm not tired, for all my quiescence; I need to be _taken_ care of. I'm tired of pretending my bone china self is made of steel and his hands are gentle as they smooth away the remnants of our bath. His skin is warm and flushed, so much so that I can't resist tasting, drawing that familiar-yet-exotic taste into myself again. I don't bother to restrain a soft grin, my lips tickling him as they curve upwards. I want to laugh but I don't; breaking this resonant silence would be a sin. _I am calling for you, reaching out from inside where I hide from everyone. Find me, so that I might find myself._

I let him think I'm leading us to bed, dancing him in that just-so manner that makes him think I'm still in charge. He needs that, my dominance, as something to surge against--resistance, weight that builds his stamina and his strength. There is an order to our relationship that neither of us is ready to upset; that structure gives us a framework upon which to grow, to rest and rely. I am in charge, except when I'm not--and even in those rare moments I call the shots. Like now, when I've already given over control, offered myself up to him. I doubt he knows that I've done so, nor that he's accepted--and how could he do otherwise? We both speak of wanting simplicity, of desiring clarity, when the truth is that our souls crave this kaleidoscopic confusion that is our coexistence. I daresay we enjoy the risk of breaking rules we don't know and crossing lines that weren't drawn until we were past them. _Draw a circle around me, trace lines on my heart, so long as you know that I'm given to do the same to you._

I'd say we hate this awkwardness that's building, but we don't. It's another part of the complications we seem to adore, this not-so-simple fact that we can vary our routine a thousand different ways and still dance gracefully, but the simple shift of hands and we're all knees and elbows. I've seen Justin lead; he does it well, unless it's me he's leading. Then, unless he knows I'm going to take over, it's stumbling and lurching. I'm at fault, too, unable to dance backwards as well as I'd like to think I can. _Dance me in circles, until I'm too dizzy to care._

Tilting _lights swirling behind my eyes_ downward and over, until I'm draped over velvet and covered in _him_. He's half-hard, skin still moist from the shower and clinging instead of gliding against mine. Breath, warm and familiar, brushing along my neck. He's waiting, body anticipating how I'll take over and twist him to fit us together. The most minute of tremors passes through me and into him, bubbling up from the base of my mind and terminating somewhere inside his. I can't say it, not in words spoken by my tongue. My body is my voice, and he has to hear me not with his ears but with his soul, his eyes, his hands and his heart. _What do you see, when this blindness clears your eyes of doubt?_

He looks up at me and I'm caught once again by the way his eyes show everything I've ever wondered. Endlessly deep, reflecting up and back down until I'm not sure what I'm looking into. All I know is that it's blue and clear and hot and whatever it is burns for me. Liquid and crystalline, there's a question caught inside. He's noticed something, _there_ where he's looking, and I can only wait until he decides he's figured it all out. 

The blue shifts a bit to the left and his hands slide upwards, catching on my forearms and pinning me by my wrists. He's seen what I've been shouting, found his answer and decided. When his lips begin trailing down my throat I can't help but let my eyes fall shut, head tilting back, opening myself to him. I never quite get used to the feel of his mouth upon me, the way his lips catch and drag. They cut and scrape, the wounds healed by the flat of his tongue. He's writing his name on my skin, teeth carving lines into flesh and muscle. I am branded, marked so that only he and I can see. _Bitten, scarred, taken._

When I dare to look at him again, I'm taken aback by what I find. Eyes wide and glowing, perfectly at home in a face given over to feral desire. His fingers have curled into claws, digging into my hips and his breath is harsh and raw. His arms flex, skin twitching over hard muscle and I can't help but feel the slightest hint of fear. It's not a fear of him harming me, because he never would--not again, anyway--but more a fear that the aftermath of whatever we're about to unleash may leave us more changed than we can handle. This isn't me simply needing an itch scratched by him, nor is it him indulging one of my less frequent peccadilloes. The danger lies in the fact that we both know it, that now we can't hide behind a gossamer veil of ignorance. _I have traded my blissful ignorance for a pocketful of you._

He moves again and my legs move as he takes his place between them. Bent, shoved up, spread open and feet caught on either side of his hips, I feel awkwardly exposed in this position. I wonder if he feels this way when I've got him like this, displayed before my eyes. Perhaps he's more used to it than I am, but right now the only thing that's keeping me from running is the sure knowledge that I can trust him. That my wanting, my needing won't be mocked or used, that it will be cherished and twisted back around both of us. 

_Slick-hot sliding, pushing in and spreading open, wider, harder, roughness trailing into sweeter silk and he's_ almost hesitant with me, tongue wicked yet innocent, as though I were fragile like china. The feel of him is acutely pleasurable, the way he pushes in and then pauses before moving, making me wait, making my head thrash on the bed and my hands knot in midnight velvet. The muscles in my legs tense so hard I fear they'll cramp, but then his hands are there, kneading and petting, understanding how I can crave this yet seize up at its unfamiliarity. It's wanting, but more of wanting what lays buried in the abyss, needing oblivion without comprehending its infinitude. I can't help pushing back against him, wanting more of whatever he _hotter and tighter, drawing me in_ deigns to lavish upon me. 

His mouth was made to worship my cock, a fact made obvious by his skill at doing so. He pulls me into him, rough and smooth at the same time, always warm and wet. I can't see for the blinding sensation of hard suction, matched by the dig of fingertips into my flesh, and the achingly needful whimpers I hear must be coming from my mouth. Senseless, wordless yet comprehensible without any translation. _More, harder, take me inside you, put me where I belong. Come back inside me, never leave this place I was born holding for you. Take, and give back to me what you took by taking again._

I feel the loss of his mouth on my cock shortly before his lips find mine again. He tastes of me, the flavors blending with his own, making up a pleasant illusion that I belong there. I let it fool me, even as his thrumming heartbeat demands I accept the never-simple fact that I do belong there, that he's carved a place for me that no one else is welcome to fill. And even as I force myself to listen to that rant, He's _there_ pushing inside me, _thick_ and hard and _God_ I can't breathe for the _pressure_ building as he just _stops_. Waiting.

_Don't wait for me, I can catch up later. Go on, run with this, fly, I'll be there before you crest this wave_. His tongue catches my every sound, hands urging my legs up to wrap around his waist. I use them wisely, gripping him tight, pulling him against me. My arms bring him down, pressing him flush to me, sealing our mutual heat into this whatever-we're-doing. A small, pale hand finds one of mine and on an inward thrust _god oh god again_ our fingers twine together, tied there above my head, bound by nothing in particular. 

Every muscle in my body clenches and releases in time to his movements; when he changes angles and hits _that_ spot I think I go into convulsions; the air in my lungs was breathed there by his mouth, slick and urgent against my own. His free hand scratches gently against my side, grounding me just enough that I don't melt away underneath him. His abdomen is crushing my cock, the pressure exactly what I need, my eyes tearing up from the painful ecstasy of it all. I must look a sight, back arching, legs braided around him, tears bathing my face. I'm crying _crying_ but not out of fear or pain or regret. 

My tears are purifying, washing away all that I couldn't leave behind on my own. He's inside me, deeper than he realizes and every time he revisits this place he heals another scar, wipes away the filthy residue of someone's thoughtless words. He touches me and I am left more whole than before; with each caress I grow closer to the man he already thinks I am. Perhaps that's why I don't let him do this more often; if I changed too suddenly no one, most especially myself, would recognize me. The alterations are as rapid as I can stand, leaving my head spinning with _change_. None of that assuages the regret I do feel, when I deny myself this pleasure. This gift he is so often forbidden from giving. 

His guttural moans are blending with mine as he grows closer, his hips staccato in their rhythm, our meshed voices echoing up and down our throats. I never want this to end, never want my body to relinquish the agony of being poised at the point he's gotten me to. Sensation wracks my perception, my reality warping to fit what he's driving into me, discarding anything that doesn't fit, that no longer belongs. I can feel myself _becoming_. Culmination as existence, my person forever forming-unforming-reforming underneath his artists' hands. 

Slick fingers curl around my cock and pull, my _straining, reaching, trying_ hand grinding our fingers together as something _what-is-this?_ unfurls. Release blooms inside me; dark, velvety petals presenting themselves to him. My dark sun, shining down upon _this you have wrought_. My breath catches on the sight of him, intent on pitching me over the precipice but I'm already there, my skin bleeding this pleasure. My sight dims, all I can hear is our disjointed hearts and erratic breathing, and then it hits. All at once, slamming _crashing_ into me. My cock swells, my ass contracts, and every cell in my body reaches for him _he who is mine_. 

I barely register the few thrusts it takes for him to join me; they cannot shake me more than I am shaking myself. His weight upon me is welcome; it anchors me in place with its heated presence. I don't want him to move, don't want him to withdraw and roll over to give me space. I don't want space; I want him, right where he is. _In me_. If only I could keep him there; it is where he belongs, after all. 

_There. A place defined by what it is only when he exists there._

_Me._


	16. Curious Moonlight

Something's changed, shifted _altered itself_ while I was caught up in a postorgasmic haze of damn-that-was-good. The last thing I registered was the tautly erotic, unresolved arousal of Brian's body as it touched mine. In the blink of an eye, that feeling shifted to this other-thing that I can't quite place. He's still tense, sharp and even harder than he was a moment ago, but everything is different. Before, he was ironwood, resistant and unbreaking. Now he's brittle, holding onto me as if any movement would shatter him into dust. 

I listen, straining to hear what is being said, whispers underneath the constant patter of water and scratchy breaths wrought on fogged glass. It's there, what he's saying, if only I could train my ears to hear it. He can't say anything simply; smirking when a smile would be easier to translate, wisecracking when a 'no' would suffice. This is no different, and it's _always_ up to me to see what I should hear. _Hearing in colors, reds masking the sonorous hiss of wanting you to know what I say._ Damn him, why can't this be simple?

Would I feel the same keening desire if it wasn't maddeningly complicated? I doubt it. Even as I complain to myself about his serpentine, tacit communication, I revel in how I can eventually discern the meaning. Every clue I need is there, obvious in the way he's changing how we kneel together. Where he was once holding on to me as though my skin was gluing him together, now he's open. _Offering_ in a way that normally only I can manage. And there, buried between the spaces his fingers have left, is the first word. _Please_. A plea, the beginnings of supplication. 

Brian never kneels in supplication. Even when he wants something so bad he's willing to beg--not a frequent occurrence--he is never the supplicant. His inherent skill in being dictates that those he wants, those he needs, do the begging. I envy that ability to make everyone else abuse their knees, even when it is us who receive his requests. _I want, and you will want to satisfy my desires._ I'm not sure I want to learn how he does it, not really. It's a gift so very _Brian_ that I'd feel alien trying to mimic it. My abilities are those of a translator, a breathing Rosetta Stone. Brian is linear B, forever a mystery to everyone. When and if I find the key to reading him, I'll never share. Let him have his opacity; I'll do nothing but reinforce it. 

More now, _please I'm asking nicely_ rolling off his thighs and coating my feet. I don’t have enough to be sure, but the pieces I have say that I should do something. Anything, if the way he's trembling can be believed. He needs something, but he can't ask for it outright. He wants, and I'm too much of a humanitarian to let him go without. Giving to him rarely leaves me lacking, and when it does it's by my own design. His wants usually involve me getting a lot more than either of us bargained for. 

His continued complacency as I turn off the shower and towel us dry is another clue, shouted at the top of his breathless voice. He's letting me attend him, passive and pliable. I'm a little uncomfortable with this acquiescence, but what can I do? Our earlier diversions didn't lesson my own need, but rather sharpened it and I can feel myself rousing, hardening as I stroke his perfectly sinful skin. He's licking me, like a cat who grooms the one petting it. I try hard to resist the urge to stroke his hair and murmur nonsensical syllables. Good boy, _be still and we shall be moved to act._ Perhaps this is what he needed--simple affection borne of familiarity. Another something to separate us from him and his tricks. 

The trek out of the shower and to the foot of the bed confuses me; he's leading us but I can't help but feel like I'm in control. He has to be in charge; he always is. He dictates our wakefulness, our slumber and everything in between. In this we are no different; he pushes and I stumble forward. So why, now of all times, do I seem to be the leader? I'm a pup, a babe blind to everything but my selfish desires. I cannot lead, not when I have no idea where we're going. I need direction, a channel to focus me wherever it is he thinks I should go. Or perhaps he's playing with me, tying one of those Gordian knots he's so fond of, tangling my senses so that he can bind my wrists and torture me with the obviousness of his games. His face is all clarity and need, eyes glassy and transparent. He needs, or so he says. _Needful, needing. I need you._

Then again, one of the things that keeps me by his side is his way of making me wonder. Of forcing me to guess, knowing that the wrong choice will lead my astray. He challenges me to take chances, even as I push him to try caution on for size. However, I'm not used to him being the chance, to having the game reside within him. He sets himself apart from the fray, above and beside it, evaluating my performance. Not tonight, when the toy he's placed in my hands is his own person. Every other time we've been like this, I've been in charge only so long as he approves of my decisions. Right now, I get the feeling he'd accept anything I wish to do. I'm scared out of my mind, flailing here without my safety net. The ground has never seemed so far away. 

Pushing him down on the bed seems like a good idea; cool velvet on his heated skin has to feel good, especially after I drape myself on top of him. He's shivering, though I doubt it's from cold. It's been far cooler than this and he's weathered it with nary a whimper, so why is he so _shaken_? Why is he waiting, laying in wait, _waiting is_? I listen for more words, for hints and clues, for demands and please. _What are you saying, behind your lips, beneath your skin?_ Guide me, take my hand and let me lead you across this chasm. 

His eyes are open, clear and endlessly tense. The need I see there is achingly familiar; I've seen it in myself so many times I scarcely notice it anymore. He wants, needs, craves what I can give him. What he takes from me as though he owns the rights to it. I need to be sure, so I look again, glancing into his mind. He lets me fuck him on occasion, but this is different. Fucking is one thing, but being taken is another entirely. Does he really want me to take over, to find his pleasure by reaping my own? Surely he's felt that before, the mindbending climax of handing himself to another for their use, confident in the knowledge that his lover would rather watch him climax than to come himself? 

Maybe not, and that thought is what spurs me on. If he's never felt that, then he's been deprived--and a deprived Brian is a sorry thing indeed. He should know what I feel every time he touches me, every time he turns me inside out and dusts off my ill-used control. My mouth moves of its own accord, searing into him as I take into myself the flavor of his skin. _Branding him, as he marks me with every moment we stay like this._ If this is what he wants, I will freely offer it to him. If it isn't...I'll deal with that later. 

When I look into his eyes again, the last of my doubts are erased. This is what he wants, as surely as he is what I need. _Spread before me, a banquet for mine own self._ I can't help the tide of arousal that sweeps through me, buffeting me against a rocky shore of razor-thin sensation. He's scared, his fear hidden behind a propped-up front of need. I won't let him stay that way, frozen by anxiety and uncertainty. He's given me what he wields so lightly and I'm bound to make good on his trust. I have followed closely his lessons, and I know what it takes to ease his suffering. When I'm through, he will feel nothing but the glory in having been taken _to me_ and then placed back on earth gently as gossamer. _Close your eyes and open yourself, so that I may step inside and rearrange this becoming to suit your soul._

I hope he's enjoying being on display, open in ways I only dream of him being. My mouth is watering, fingers drumming along his thighs as I wait, dragging out my own satisfaction. He has to be nervous still, finding himself in a position he only makes others assume. He looks good this way, better than I would have thought. In another universe, it would be the only one he could willingly accept. Here, though, I may never see it again, so I take the time to appreciate. To savor. _Mine, more than yours, but ours mostly._

And god the _taste_ of him, the way he catches my senses and refuses to relinquish them. This _this_ is what I get to have so rarely that each time is like finding it for the first time. He's more than scared now and so I seek to reassure him even as I breach him, winding my way deeper inside. I'm there, somewhere, hidden and I want to find myself where he is. I can't help but take more, forcing him to give over to me. This is mine by rights, though I enforce that ownership only rarely. Mine, and tonight he will know it. _Know who possesses you, for I will not let you forget so easily as you think._

Having had a taste of him here, I must now search for what is _there_. His cock is a frequent treat of mine, but now I find myself learning all over again the way he loves being in my mouth. He isn't thrusting expertly into me now, no. This time his hips are eager but untrained, clumsy in their attempts to find another way to get me to swallow him. Tonight he is the virgin boy and I am the sacred whore, kneeling at the banks of this forgotten river. Now I have to remind him that he exists within me and his struggles are ones he's already conquered, if only he'd remember the fight. 

His cries fill my mouth as thickly and completely as I fill him, pushing inside as soon as I've prepared my cock. Still he is uncontrolled, accepting my leadership and my body as though both were all he ever wanted. I pause, wishing to record the way he's clasping me, squeezing me tight. Why doesn't every time feel like this, as though we've done this a thousand times before but forget each time, at least until we're halfway there again? _Spiraling down and hitting bottom just as we've reached the top._

Oh, and now _now, finally now_ he moves, holding onto me just like I hold onto him every time he buries himself inside me. This must be what it feels like to take, to have me welcome him inside with a greedy, grasping heart. I know he's a step behind me but he's pushing me on, so I find his hand and drag him along. He isn't going to let me leave him there, walking when he could be running at my side. Now that I've found the path, leading him is no chore, no fear-darkened risk I could or could not be taking. _I cannot shy away from what you've offered me, not when I've scraped away the gilt and found you underneath._

Oh yeah, this is right and at this point it's like every time we come together. Taking, taken, _giving-given_ , finding and losing in what we've found. I pace him, wake him from the watery depths he's drowning in. I revel in the way he has no control, his body arching into my every thrust, eyes weeping with the sheer orgasmic pleasure of having nothing to do but _feel_. I know those tears aren't from suffering but rather from rejoicing. His body is free and his mind has followed along and now he's flying, wings unfettered by the bindings he's only just now cast off. I'll catch him when he's ready to return to earth, but for now I'll simply push him higher, let him see what I always see when he takes me here. 

I always want him to look this way, to be this free and goddamned content. If I could freeze this moment and always have him squirming closer to himself I would. It's with great regret that I admit that neither of us could stand that--he needs his familiar rocky outcropping to stand on and I need something to scramble over. When this is over he won't be as high up, and I won't be as far down and someday _before we forget how to find this place_ , the here we find ourselves at will resemble where we are now--wide open fields of air with no ground to hit when we fall. 

But our bodies are forcefully reminding me they are bound by biology in ways our minds aren't. His throat grinds with the need to find release, body shaking with that same desire. I'm groaning with him, nipping and pushing in a way far less gentle than I'd set out to be. We're getting there, drawing closer to the point where all we'll know is what our minds let our bodies feel in an attempt to keep us from relinquishing both and facing oblivion. 

It only takes a single touch of my hand on his cock and he's there, body pulsing once and then solidifying into liquid marble. My own cock cries out at the incredible pressure and my fingers slide absently through the silk of his release but it's my eyes that have received the bulk of his climax. His face is...the words to describe it are marching their way down my nerves. He looks like I feel, awed and real and _found_ in the moment. He's still even as I keep thrusting madly into him, clawing my way to reach where he's already found himself. 

When I get there I fall apart, tumbling down upon him. He holds me to him, unwilling to let me locate where we aren't joined. I don't have the energy tell him his fears are unfounded, that I couldn't move even if either of us wanted me to. There isn't anywhere I could go that would be other than where I am now, mired in the wreckage that is what we always are. We're nothing less than a tattered heap of arms and legs, of words and actions, of _having become, we unmake ourselves so we can become what we are once again._

But for the moment, we are whole in our undoing.


	17. Curious Moonlight

It's in these after-moments that my eyes see in Brian what my heart has always known was there. Quiet, relaxed-yet-guarded and wrapped in me like I'm the only thing keeping him from flying off the face of the earth. It's not a matter of me fucking him that gets him like this; sometimes it's after he's screwed me so hard I can barely see. No, it's something inside him, as though he's been twisted and stretched and needs a few minutes to bring himself back together. This is when my presence is so necessary, to shield him from the cold, nasty world that would like nothing more than to taint him, to rend him thought from thought until nothing was left but the shell he likes to think is all there is anyway. I won't let that happen--I can't, I'm too invested in the inner Brian to see it destroyed by a moment of thoughtlessness. Anyone's thoughtlessness. 

Besides, I'm getting to hold him the way I like to be held myself, and he's not complaining about it. His back is sweaty and warm, sealed up against my chest. Legs bent at the hip and knee, curled around mine and we're the proverbial spoons. My arms keep him tied close, holding his slim waist so he can't melt away--not that he wants to. No matter how much he might grumble later about me forcing him to cuddle, it's his hands that are clasped over mine, shouting for me to stay put. As if I'd go anywhere but where I am, reveling in this-which-is-now, almost better than what got us here in the first place.

I measure his breathing with my lips, pressed to the back of his neck. He's still inhaling erratically, probably being chilled by evaporating sweat and an adrenalin crash. Somewhere between orgasm and five minutes from now, his brain will kick into gear and he'll either push me away or start thinking about what just happened. Even my blonde self knows it was something besides fucking, which means he definitely knows. And even if he wanted it, initiated it and made sure we followed through, he's been conditioned to deny, to repress and to hide. 

But he's not moving now, so I'll stay here, a strangler fig climbing the strongest tree I can find. I hope that image is just me being artistic and melodramatic and that I'm not really a parasite, but I never can be completely sure. In noisy moments I can puff up my self-esteem and convince myself that I'm all he needs and he obviously wants me here. Most quiet moments are filled with the same thing, me being sure of myself and sure of his wrecked wanting. Then there are times like these, where my blood is thick with hormones and endorphins and my cock is aching from being inside him and I'm not so sure. Please, god please don't let me be the sum of my biology. Let me be something besides cock, ass and mouth. 

I hope my hands are at least as important. They work well to arouse and to soothe, and to paint and draw, but their most important function is to hold. I hold him up to wherever he wants to be. I pin him down when he would run amok. I hold him in when he would spill forth and lose himself in moments of anguish. I hold him out, extending him to the places he is afraid to go alone. He is held, captured but not captive, and instead of feeling exaltation at my victory I am terrified of making a mistake. He is far too _Brian_ for me to err. 

I suppose my fears are overblown; he obviously trusts me. If he didn't, then why am I guarding him tonight, when his soul is sorting out its various pieces? It's another wordless reassurance he gives me in his offhand manner. Here, he says, take care of this, would you? The impatient youth in me wants to help, despite the fact that I know that getting the dust of his being on my skin would be detrimental to both of us. Enough of me is older, wiser and less confident; that part keeps my hands where they are, holding him in. Cosmic duct tape, a living cast to give comfort and support. 

His body twitches once, skin shuddering much like the hide of a horse beset with flies. I saw that in a park once and was fascinated with the musculature hidden just below the surface. Skin twisting, jerking and flexing as though a separate living being. There's nothing circling us now, so I can only imagine what sensation made him move like that. Perhaps it was a piece of that jigsaw puzzle sliding into place. Maybe it was a stray thought lighting upon his hip, annoying him by shifting fine hairs this way and that. I just hold him a little tighter and breathe in his scent, salty and strong with spent longing. 

It's been long enough that I know that regardless of whether he moves or not, the next thing we'll be doing won't involve much beyond sleeping. My own body has spiraled down into exhaustion, taken there by a long and busy day, followed by a strenuous night out and in. It's warm enough that I'm not uncomfortable without the covers on top of me; his body heat is a welcome presence as it wraps around us. I don't want to move; I like this place we're at with its silence and stillness. There's a certain peace in its uncertainty; we could move apart but I would still be at rest. We could remain pressed together and find ourselves running in different directions. Or, we could stay right where we are, _here_. My want of an earlier hour has turned into a want for no reason, of no direction. I wanted him and got what I wanted. Now I want this and know that even if he takes it away, I still have it. Somewhere, anyway, tucked where he pointedly doesn't look. 

Or perhaps he does, and has chosen not to mind.


	18. Curious Moonlight

There may well be nothing purer in the world than being held in Justin's arms. They're slim but strong, pale and warm and so very steady. For most of the time we've been whatever-we-are, I've held him. And I know, even if he never said a word about it, that my holding him was something he needed. But this holding-of-me-by-him, it's necessary for my survival. Without his warmth and strength, I know I'd fall apart and freeze to death--nothing more than the fragmented and frigid debris of a worthless man-child. I'm never bored in this presence, and the fact that I don't think I'll ever tire of him doesn't bother me like it should.

He's got his arms around me, legs cradling mine, holding all my various parts together. This is exactly what I need right now--the only thing I could possibly need from him after all he's done for me. After being rearranged just-so, I need time to bring myself back together. He's keeping me steady, the heat from his skin nourishing me as I fall back into place. With him around me, nothing can reach me--except him. Justin is always here, right where I want him. So for now I'll simply exist in his warmth, melting in it even as it solidifies me. 

I want him again; my body has recovered just enough to start aching--not from exertion or unfamiliar penetration, but from deprivation. This submission-as-healing feels good, harsh and wrong and the only thing I know I can grasp when everything else is slipping through my fingers. I know that rationally, I can't ask for it again, not without upsetting the delicate balance that keeps us at each others' throats... but I still want. _I want_ , I'll always want but I won't ever give in until I need. The wanting is strong enough, though, that I stay here, curled inside him, resigned to having just this much and no more. Satisficing, compromising my wants for our better interests. But I still want. 

I want, and I could assuage the small part of me that wants pleasure by turning in his arms and pressing him into the bed. Fuck him until we both scream and we'll enjoy the end result--but he's whole, or a damn sight more so than I am, and that bond is strong enough already. We know our pleasure inside and out, we've perfected me-fucking-him. I've spent enough time inside his body that his mysteries are all familiar, which makes me love them all the more, but leaves me wanting him to push, to demand to learn mine in return. I'm scared shitless that he will, that one day he'll tell me it's time to tie us together using the language I've been teaching him. 

I know he'll do it, sooner or later, when he's no longer distracted by the fleshly pursuits of youth and the demands of maturation. He's growing so much faster than I did that it won't be the decades it would be were our positions reversed. He's already so close, though I can't imagine he realizes it; I barely see it myself. When will he gain the confidence to move forward, to trust his instincts and his abilities and stand up to what he's unwittingly building with every quiet moment after?

But for now I'm happily drowning in this lazy hour, enjoying the uncomplicated and unforced quiet. He's not talking, but it's not the tense silence of him thinking he'll piss me off if he opens his mouth, but rather the graceful echo of knowing that there isn't anything we can't say with our mouths closed. No smug grins or satisfied whimpers, no groans and laughter. Just our corporeal forms drifting back to baseline, hearts slowing, blood cooling, eyes drooping ever farther towards closed. Perhaps we should move; if we don't we might wake up in one body, our skin having fused during the night. It's absurd, but what's even worse is I don't think I'd mind much. He would always be inside me then, and I'm sure he'd have a field day rearranging me. Or not; I think perhaps he prefers watching me move myself around. He's a voyeur like that. He could help out occasionally; he's got an artists' aesthetic after all. 

He moves just enough for me to remember he's there, a precious warmth behind and above and beside and all around me. His conscious seems to coat us like silk, thin and tenuous heat holding a universe's demons at bay. It's something I could do on my own; hell, there's not much I couldn't do on my own. The thing is, I think I like having the help. I don't need it, although when I'm feeling weak and tired I believe I do. No, I could survive just fine without him by my side. But it would be just that--survival. I would be alive, but I wouldn't be living. I would breathe and sleep and walk and move through my existence with all the interest and passion of a paint-by-numbers Virgin Mary. 

Or maybe I'll listen to the more rational part of me that's saying we should succumb to sleep. With him where he is and me where I am, I've no fear of what will visit us when we're laid out unawares. Our dwelling is filled with his presence, and I'm lucky enough to be at the epicenter of it all, surrounded by that which radiates out from his person. My body is tired, my mind almost chafed from thinking so much. I need this break, this reprieve from being. _Becoming_ is hard work, and I'm worn from being made and remade over and over again. I know I'll want it all again tomorrow, and the day after, every day until the next day doesn't bother showing up. The man behind me, he'll make sure that what I want, what I need, is waiting for me when I wake. It is perhaps the least difficult task he's ever been given, since the only thing I need when I next wake is something he gives without effort. 

Himself.


	19. Curious Moonlight

Once again, I'm awake and by myself in my consciousness. I'm not bothered by it, though. Unlike most days, I'm not awake because of the alarm's insistence that I go to work, or my festering brain's rants and raves that I should hate myself even more than I do. Today I'm roused by contentment. Sheer, honest-to-god contentment, brought on by just the right amount of Justin settling like fine sand in my veins. As a result, I actually feel ok. No hangover, no scratchy eyes and dry tongue, no protesting joints and creaky voices in my head. The only ache I feel is a pleasant one, one I'd rather not feel fade anytime soon. 

When I fell asleep, it was with the comforting surety of his person shielding mine. We've moved in the night, though, and now I'm holding him, his slim body lax in my arms. He's completely asleep, mind as still as his body. He's not even dreaming, under so deep I'm surprised he's still breathing. The sleep of the blessed innocents, and I'd be jealous except that him being like this lets me experience it vicariously. I sleep better when he's here, and that may be why. Even if I'm not sleeping well, his easy slumber seeps into me by diffusion. As long as it's not going the other way and I'm infecting him, I'm happy with the situation. 

Ah, but he's slept enough for one night, in my opinion. Of course, my opinion is seriously affected by my cock, and who am I to argue with that? We might have no need to continue practicing this particular art form, but that doesn't mean we can't indulge in the perfection of me fucking him. I love being inside him, making an emphatic statement about where home is with every thrust. Yes, home is wherever he is, but fucking him is like that warm, airy rush of walking in the front door when it's snowing outside. The first second is hotter than hell, unbearably _there_ that I want to cringe away from the presence of it. But then, in the next moment, all that welcoming warmth encompasses me and draws me in. It's a blink-and-you'll-miss-it moment, but I can't forget the way that one moment changing to another moment brings me home. He's the same way, bowling me over and then taking me in. I endure the flames knowing that the fear of being incinerated is all in my mind. 

I'm in the mood to get a little scorched, to feel that pleasant pain yet again. I want to climb inside him and wallow around in what he gives me, wrap myself in him and push him down. It's almost too easy to roll us over, to press him deeper into the bed as I lay myself on top of him. His smaller body is hidden almost completely by mine, only the tiniest slivers of pale skin glowing here and there against my darker flesh and the midnight gleam of velvet. I like him underneath me, solid and instinctively welcoming. He's awake now; I can tell by the way he's spreading below me. Oh, he moves when he's asleep, too, but this is different. It's calculated, his thighs shifting just enough to accommodate me between them, arms bending and tensing to support his chest in anticipation of me pushing against his back. His face is still buried in the pillow, but his neck is curving back, lifting his head just the tiniest bit. 

By the time I'm ready, his knees are bent, further opening him. Neither of us needs the lingering conversation of foreplay so I push in without preamble, moving in time to the muffled groans that filter their way out of his throat. His heat is excruciating and I can't help but fall forward, catching my face in the crook of his shoulder. The air there is thick and warm, clinging wantonly to his skin and redolent with the scent of him. I can hear his fingers kneading the underside of the pillow, just like his ass is massaging me. 

We're good at this, not needing words or even unspoken directions to guide us. Our bodies know the way and our minds are content to let them lead us. I give and he takes, taking me in and giving me myself back with every clenching thrust _release_. The deeper I go, the more centered I become. I am balanced inside him, resting yet restive with the need to retreat and come forward again. But slowly, _so slowly_ that not even I can be sure I'm moving at all. Am I moving forward or backwards, in or out? I can't be sure that I am, or that I even care. 

_Over and over and under and again_ and this is like dancing, our skin not-quite-sliding in concert, muscles twisting together, bodies moving in an antagonistic rhythm without losing contact for even the smallest moment. Legs pushing against mine as he moves, arms pushing against mine as I surround him. I want to let go, to just lose myself inside him, to _take_. I want him. I want him splayed out for the taking, surrendered to me. _Mine._

But he isn't mine. He doesn't belong to me; he doesn't belong to anyone, even himself. I can't take him, I can't own him, can't ever have him. There's too much of me inside him; he's not mine because he's more me than I am. You can't take yourself, not like this and now I don't feel that insatiable urge. There's no goal here other than the one we've already reached. We _are_. Content to be. _Being_. In this, in the movement of us-inside-ourselves. 

_Slide thrust push pause_ He wants more, his breath ragged and hurting. His body must be aching, clawing at his eyes and seething with need. He likes it slow, but on his own terms. Slow when he's feeling tender, fast the rest of the time. Now I need it slow, slower, slowing down until each thrust is powered by the movement of a planet around its sun. I need to feel his heart pounding, fluttering, pushing out of his chest to slap me into action. I can hear him calling out, cursing me, his voice hampered by fabric and stuffing and my own weight on top of him. Each attempt to spur me on simply slows me down. Every indictment of my lassitude just exacerbates it. The more he shows the facets that fascinate me, the more I want to study them at length. His neck where it joins the shoulder, the hidden juncture of his ear, the tiniest droplets of sweat dampening his hair. I can feel his shoulder blades digging into my chest, his spine pressing the hollow between my ribs. Here, he is hard and angular in ways he accuses me of being. In other places he is comfortingly soft, his ass smooth and round against my thighs. His legs are all muscle, though, bruising mine as the squeeze and clench. His feet are turned, almost standing on the backs of my knees. 

I'm being selfish and I know it, forcing him to accept the pace I need at the expense of his own sanity. I want to savor him like this, accepting of my leadership but not particularly happy about it. He wants this but he doesn't want it the way I want it, and every grading clench of his ass around my cock is letting me know most emphatically. _Take, harder, give it like I want it._

And then I hear just what he's saying, what his wordless moans are telling my deafened ears. He's past the point of demanding, his legs now caressing instead of grasping, body pleading and not forcing. _Please_ is spoken in a language I understand fluently. Please, please us both by pleasing me. Show me you love me by respecting this body you're using so well. 

_Please_ me. 

Abruptly what he needs is what I need and that's it, I can't hold back anymore. It's back, pushing me forward _in-out-in_ as his body seeks to push me back where it wants me to be. _There_ again, my mouth sealed on his skin, sucking hard, connecting, grounding me in this maelstrom of giving back what I hadn't taken. He's still not where I am so I seek to bring him with me, wrapping my fingers around his cock and tugging him along, his only-too-willing body jerking and thanking me with that last thing I needed. 

_White heat, blindingly bright_ floods me, searing the words of his body into my skin and I can't stand the pleasure, pouring out of him and into me. I can't breathe, can't live without this _feeling_ of a perfect, jaw dropping tight warmth sucking me dry until I _blink_ and I haven't missed it, there it is again, everywhere and I can't get away from it. I can't lose myself in this but I have no choice either, but when I do, all I find is him. And what is he holding, hidden in his own release?

_Me._

Waiting for my return, and I accept myself back even as I give myself over to him again for safekeeping.

* * *

This isn't the end of the series by any stretch of the imagination, but it might be the last update for a while. Holiday break is sending me to far-flung places and I can't guarantee that I'll be writing until break is over.


	20. Curious Moonlight

Brian waking me up for sex isn't anything new; he's been doing it pretty much since the first night he brought me to the loft. Each time is different, though. Sure, the basics are the same; a touch here, a stroke there and the ever-present thrust of his cock against some part of my body. Those superficial similarities aside, I can easily catalogue each experience as unique. Once, his skin made the most perfect contrast against too-cold air from where he'd left the heat off the day before. Another time, it was the way he slid my foot against sticky velvet, waking my by reminding me that once again I'd dirtied his precious duvet cover. 

This time what wakes me isn't a chill, or kitten-tongue roughness but rather a tap-dancingly nervous want. Right now, Brian wants. He _wants_ , in such a way that I can't sleep through it. His want is buzzing in my ear like an alarm clock, incessantly reminding me that there are those other than myself whom I serve. I can feel this want nudging me, pushing my limbs this way and that. He hasn't moved his body, but his want is positioning me to suit his pleasure. 

Or rather, our pleasure. 

I know what he wants, and I know that in a few minutes he's going to fuck me. It's always the same; after I fuck him, he gets a bit of his own back by fucking me until I drown from it. I guess he thinks he needs to restore whatever balance my fucking him has distorted. I wouldn't know anything about it; fucking him doesn't change anything between us--well, not in a bad way. Then again, what I consider bad and what he considers good usually line up, and vice versa. I know him better every time he lets me in, and that freaks the hell out of him. I bet he doesn't admit that to himself, at least not when he's sober enough to remember afterwards. 

I know what he wants, and I am what he needs. 

He needs to push inside me, to recall just how it is this thing we have works. These are his rules, passed by fiat and I suppose I'll continue being happy to be included in them. He fucks me, not that I mind. I love it, the way he lets himself flow into me and settle comfortably for a while. There's the way he leans down and rests his forehead against the base of my neck, one hand guiding my hips and the other holding his weight away from me. How am I supposed to be resentful of anything he does when he's like that, mindful of me when his body is scrambling eagerly into nothingness?

By the time I'm willing to admit I'm awake, he's inside me and _god_ if he only does this over and over again and never lets me fuck him, I'll die a happy little queer. He's burning up, hotter than me, or is it me that's burning up? I can't tell--who's who, or anything else of the sort. All I know is that he's right here with me, body meshed with mine, breath streaking raggedly against my cheek. I want to hold him close but he's chosen a position that forbids me that luxury. All I get is what he gives out. 

And just like every other time, the farther we go the more calm he becomes. During any other fuck, he'd be growing just as frantic as his body--mind fragmenting in the moment, hips dictating words with every slick thrust. Now? Right now his body is trembling with confusion even as his mind stills. He's finding himself, balanced so that all movements physical and psychological balance out to nothing. His mind is where it should be, as is his body. My own body says he's still moving, or at least doing something I like; breathy groans spill over the pillowcase like teardrops. 

I think we're fucking by memory; I'm pretty sure I didn't actually tell my body to push back and grasp him like that, but it did anyway. I can hear him talking to me, his sweat whispering and murmuring. He's everywhere, even if all I see underneath me is the bed. I know it, just like I know that if he doesn't speed up in a few minutes I'll start begging. The point has been made; my body is his to possess. Now, have mercy on me, _my lord_ and master. Touch me, or let me touch myself. Let me touch you. 

Let me touch. 

Slowly _slow_ slowing _slower_ and he's not moving any more than necessary breaths propel him forward and back. It's not enough; him being quiescent inside me isn't what I need right now. He can exist inside me all he wants; he's always there even when I don't bother to make note of his presence. But when he grows still like this I can't _feel_ him, much like how I can't feel my clothes when I'm painting, or how air is beneath our attention until the wind blows. I'm trying to stay captured by him, forcing my attention to remain focused on him and not on me, but he's not moving. He's not changing me and so my mind wants to wander. To wonder, to glory in what my body is feeling and to leave him behind. Go forth, go forward, run back and recapture what you left for him to conquer. 

I think I said something and then it's there. His chest falls against my back, wet heat burning into me. I clench with anticipation, waiting impatiently for him to _move_ and fulfill the promise he just made me. Our bones, barely hidden by skin and muscle, are knocking together with fleshy rattles. If I could reach back, I'd sink my teeth into him and rend him apart, just to find the switch inside that would get him to obey. He is the master now, so it is his duty to dominate. To take control, and so far he isn't. He's not forcing me to be still, but neither is he moving himself. I'm left twisting in the wind while he contemplates how the nature of our fucking impacts the goddamned climate of the rainforest or whatever _the hell_ is going on in his cesspool of a mind. 

_Please._

It's not until I give up that he gives in. That's the pattern, and I know it... but somehow despite that fact I never fail to forget until I realize it once again. Give up, give in, give over. Maybe we wouldn't be so good together if the sequential capitulation happened too quickly. 

Take.

I can't help but react to him when he's like this, riding me hard and sinuously. I can almost see the way his back arches and flexes, ass clenching and rising with each thrust. I don't need a picture; my mind is endowed with the creativity necessary to see what he's doing even as all my eyes register is how he's pushing me against the bed. 

Taking.

His fingers shouldn't feel that good; they're long and bony, thin and angular like something Picasso would hurl at a woman he hated. The feel of them on my cock twists me this way and that with a reality-skewing sharpness; looks can be deceiving and those hands can touch me anytime. I want them now, stirring me so I can't focus on anything. He's finding himself in this kaleidoscope of things-I-am, catching drops of this and that on his hands while I get flung off into this thing he's making. 

Taken.

He finds me, a favor granted through familiar affection. I feel it as soon as he hands me over--the pleasure, reaming its way along my arteries and dancing through capillaries until I don't bother trying to figure out where it's going next. I'm twirling around him, shattered and glued back together as he comes down first, wrapping bits of me here and there. The picture made is odd, but not unattractive and I think I'll leave it. I'm not sure what it is, but it matches what he's made of himself. 

Sleep is scratching at my ears again, but I don't succumb before noting that we're back where we're supposed to be. Again.


	21. Curious Moonlight

It isn't until Ted starts talking about the abnormally large cock on some internet porn star that it occurs to me that I don't want to be here. Most of the time I don't mind family dinners, even with the intermittent moments of angst and tension. Michael's digs at everything from my age to his mother's stylelessness just flow past me. Most days, anyway. Tonight, though, they're all doing a line-dance on my last nerve. All I want is for Brian to take me somewhere slightly less occupied and then fuck me until I forget just how much this dinner is sucking. 

And suck it does. Ted's perving on some man's cock--something I can totally relate to, since Brian's cock has a starring role in most of my fantasies. But come on, does Ted *ever* get any actual, flesh-and-blood action? Everyone says he's pathetic because of it. Yeah, he's pathetic, but it's not exactly because of the whole virtual action shit. He kinda reminds me of Manet; both of them did some groundbreaking work in their chosen fields but ended up watching as the next wave of young talent went farther, got more famous and took most of the glory. Maybe if Ted would just...reach farther, branch out, go somewhere new. I think he's afraid to, though. He suffered so much at the beginning of his online sex fantasy thing that now, he's comfortable there. He endured the torture, the humiliation and the mockery and now it's just another too-soft, too-comfortable sweatshirt. That's why Ted's pathetic. He's stuck in something that's not doing anything for him and isn't going anywhere either. It's enough to have one of those things plaguing your nights, but both? Man, move on. Just.move.on.

And besides, Ted shouldn't ever sit next to Emmett--any curator worth his salt would claw his eyes out before hanging Manet next to one of Dalí's later pieces. Emmett's outfit of the day is something Brian might refer to as LSD a la mode. Emmett was always some sort of Dalí painting--flashy, psychedelic and just a wee bit out in someone else's unconscious's left field. Some days, he was early Dalí--that 'hey, look at me' phase, with his hand up in the air waving for your attention. Then there were days like today, where he didn't bother with formalities and just grabbed you by the throat in those surprisingly strong hands and shook you til all you knew was that _damn_ Emmett had arrived. Glenda-the-Good-Emmett verses Wicked-Emmett-of-the-West. Days like this, I feel like one of the Lollypop Kids, and maybe Debbie's been sneaking 'shrooms into the cannoli. 

And mmm, Debbie. She's a good cook, but tonight's usual repast is sitting in my stomach like wet clay. Oh, it tasted fine, but she's doing her shouting thing again. Debbie's my own personal Warhol, a self-contained dichotomy of convention and audacity that doesn't bother asking if you want an explanation. She's by turns the strangest thing I've ever seen and the most ordinary person in the world. One day, she's a better gay man than I am, and the next she's every mother hen I've ever met. She's tacky and tasteless, an armchair made out of recycle tires and decorated with Astroturf. Incredibly original but often a bad idea anyway. It's not surprising then that if you take a walking Warhol and impregnate her by a drag queen, you get a comic strip--Michael. 

Who is currently engaged in an actual intellectual conversation with Ben. I'm so fucking glad they can't actually procreate. Somehow I think the crossing of a comic strip and a mandala would be some sort of neopolitical anime strip featuring giraffes and grenade launchers. Ben's calming, at least in small doses--right up until I want to scan him into a computer and mess that too-neat-design up utterly by injecting some fucking uniqueness. Pattern for as far as the inner eye can see. It drives me nuts after about five minutes, but then again so does meditation. 

God, I'm horny. 

Watching Mel and Lindsay always softens me right up, though, and tonight is no different. They're like Bob Ross and Bob Ross's evil twin, hung side by side in some vacation-resort gallery. Happy little clouds and steel-toed trees, dancing merrily along utopian streams of mid-priced red wine and bungalows in the suburbs. They scare me; class a la Target and mass consumption revolutionaries bundled up in Ikea-branded post-hippy chick sentimentality. Bring the American Dream to the queer world, my ass. There's nothing inherently wrong with wanting the same things everyone else wants, but... The thing is, we *have* most of that anyway. There's no need to repackage it with a rainbow flag on it just for the sake of doing it. We all wipe our asses with fluffy white paper and I don't need mine to be queer friendly. I want good health insurance, not a neighborhood association that caters to someone's desires for biweekly parades espousing my cause of the week. And no fucking fluffy happy reinforced aluminum clouds. With leather. 

Gus is cute, though. And so like Brian it's scary. Some days I wonder if there's actually any of Linds in him, past a few physical features. If anyone could find a way to procreate without anyone else's genes involved, it would be Brian. 

I could spend days, or maybe years, finding Brian in the work of every major artist of the last thousand years. I don't bother, though, because it's much more fulfilling to just find him in my own work. He's always there, even when I'm drawing something completely unrelated. Still life? He's there, in the curve of a vase or the shine of apple skins. Landscapes? No fluffy clouds, just the harsh angles of his frown carving jagged edges into ravines. He's a muse, my muse, and for that reason he's everywhere. He's the paper I draw on and the charcoal I draw with, and I'm fine with that. There's nothing derivative about Brian, which is why he's my muse. I could fuck anyone else, so it isn't that. He's just... everyone else at this table lacks that core authenticity. Even Brian has his facades, but underneath it, he's all Brian--not an amalgamation of things he sorta wishes he was. There's no superhero, or diva or ice queen dancing and posing behind his eyes. Just Brian. He stands there, a flesh-and-blood human in the midst of all these paintings, looking a little bored and a little pissed and a lot amused by the cacophony of life swirling around his beloved Prada boots. 

Some day, I'm going to draw that picture, or maybe two versions of it. One with him and one without--the blank space where he used to be a glaring testament to what he brings to this group. There's a name for it, but I don't think I'll be saying it any time soon. Giving breath to that thought isn't my place. 

Yet.


	22. Curious Moonlight

Ah, yet another fabulous fucking family dinner. I hate these things, but I keep coming back for more. Debbie would say that I don't really hate them, but that I'm not willing to drop the asshole persona long enough to admit it. She's wrong, though. I really _do_ hate this shit. I hear about everyone's lives every goddamned day, so I don't need a weekly rehash over pomodoro and screw-top table wine. 

Maybe it's Justin; he seems to like this pseudofamilial camaraderie. He sure as hell didn't get it at home, where plastered on smiles and tautly meaningless chitchat ruled the evening meals. He's certainly adapted, jumping into whatever's seeping out of whoever's pores today. For a while, anyway, until a well-placed hand brings him back to more important topics, like getting laid. 

I wonder if I can get him out of here before the cannoli. 

I'm about to tweak his ear when I see it. _The look_. His eyes are almost-but-not-quite crossed, the frown line between his brows just starting to form. He's thinking, but his mind is a thousand miles away. I can't not watch this because the evolution of Justin's thoughts and their corresponding facial expressions is a thing of beauty. If you're careful, you can see what he's looking at, although I highly doubt anyone could see what he sees. The barest glimmer of resignation, disgust, revulsion and pity flicker here and there. It hits me, then, that he's more than just not paying attention. 

He's just not here anymore. Wherever he's gone, it's away from tonight's cocks-and-robbers melodrama and the quickly disintegrating whatever-the-fuck Debbie's shoveling down our throats. I want to be there, where he is. It has to be better than this... this fucking carnival of convention. They're like wind-up toys; twist a bit and they talk and walk, but it's always the same thing. Jerk off this, gold lame that, vagina sculptures and rainbow flags. Don't they ever fucking change?

Yeah, I pitch the same shit all the time, but at least I know I'm doing it. Fuck, I mean to; that way nobody bothers to look around the poster board. These losers want people to look closer. They beg for it, little tin cups rattling with change as they scrape up the discarded butt-ends of other peoples' dignity. They're stuck, the same, not decaying but not growing. Static. 

Dolls. Fucking plastic dolls, like what Mattel throws away when the fuckheads on the Barbie doll assembly line drop acid and go crazy with the little cunt. Fully pose-able with a limited range of motion. Fully functional within original manufacturer's parameters. Waterproof but susceptible to drowning. Ninety-nine percent of little girls throw away their Barbies for good reason: after a while, they're fucking _boring_. They stand there, looking pretty, but then what? There's only so many times you can change her clothes; she'll never be anything else. You buy them all, but what do you have? Ten thousand of the same damned thing. 

They're just like that. Every day, every fucking family dinner and it's all the same. Put a different set of clothes on it, change the names in the story, and it's the _same goddamned thing_. I wouldn't care if they would just fucking _notice_. Come on, you bastards, wake up and revel in your absurdity. They're still asleep, though. Sleeping or willfully ignorant, I can't tell which. Or perhaps I don't want to. It doesn't matter; I'll just go to work and write another formulaic fantasy for them to insert into their monotonous little collection. They buy my shit, even as they mock me for selling it to them. Can't they see that I'm just selling them themselves? They've traded their flesh for beer and electronica and Gucci knockoffs. They're the market, the demographic and the product. They're losers who've bought into their own inferiority, buying chinks in their own armor. 

I watch as their faces blur, soft rubberized plastic sliding into new, shiny shapes. Flesh-toned clouds, morphing into whatever I want to see. Babbling sheep, suspicious-looking rabbits. I hate this place, I hate these symbolic excuses for human beings and mostly I hate that I'm still sitting here putting up with this shit. The only person around me who's not turning into a fucking puddle of blissful stupidity is Justin and maybe I could just grab him and make a run for it. We could go home and fuck ourselves back into some semblance of reality, where Emmett isn't Earring Magic Ken and Mikey isn't doing an admirable impersonation of Skipper's twat. 

Oh god, someone get me out of here before I regret not breaking myself in two. 

I need Justin. Now. 

Getting out of here _out of here now out here out there_ like I'm pressed up against reinforced glass, scratching my eyes out, pleading with bloody fingertips, get me out of here. Drop kick the lesbian superduo through a window, swing Ted by his ankles and knock the door down, stick a pin into Debbie's brain and detonate her psyche, I don't care I just need _out_. 

Or, I could do what I do near the end of every family dinner: reach into my back pocket and pull out a square of silken disdain and wipe my mind with it, toss a few catty comments on the table as a tip, and make my grand exit stage left, fair-haired boy in tow. Give my apologies to the court, but we must bid you adieu; something better is waiting anywhere but here. Please, go on about your pointless existences as you were before our arrival. Their faces agglomerate back into place, each lump looking slightly disappointed as its fun comes to an end. 

Now--how to ease our way out the door without the requisite dish of leftovers. Mentioning a trip to the backroom usually works.


	23. Curious Moonlight

Justin didn't say a word on the drive home, but I don't blame him. He may or may not know what I was thinking over dinner, but regardless I'm sure he picked up on my mood. I want to rein in this unpleasant desire I have to eviscerate someone, but I can't. It's swirling and scratching at the underside of my skin, shouting at me. _Hurt, strike, draw blood so you can clean your claws with his beauty._ I want him so badly I can taste the ache on my lips but I'm afraid to touch; who knows what kind of damage I'll inflict like this. 

_Spinning, curling, twisting back up and down, striping skin with bone and falling away_ My mind is rotting, fragmented, useless bits scattering this way and that. How the hell I parked the car, I'll never know. He's still here, just a hairsbreadth away. The gravitational pull of his psyche keeps me in orbit, following along a path I don't have to acknowledge to be bound to obey. He's calm, calmer than I would be if our positions were reversed, almost serene even though I know he's hard. Sweat is rising in tiny beads along the back of his neck and I can smell it, radiating off that gilded skin and calling to me, singing for me to _claim, take, open up and disassemble, muck amok tattered and torn._

I want to ignore that urge; right now touching is more akin to rending than taking. My fingers hurt from being bent into claws and I can hear my heart thrumming, teeth coming together loudly. There's that thing inside him that is more-than-Justin, the part that seals me to him. I want to see it, come face to face with the deity that resides within him, hold myself up to it. I know the experience would kill me but I still want. I want the purity, the blood, the sure truth that all things came together and fell apart on the altar of my hands. I want to worship the creation of my end. 

As soon as I hear the lock click into place, I turn to reach for him, fingers gliding through unresisting air until he catches my eye and

then _there_

I'm stopped. The world, rank with decay and malice, clambering over my shoes and into my pockets, stops. The cacophonous throng of mantras and slogans that were chained to my eyes fall away into dust.

I am quieted and he is _here_ , fingers gliding easily over my arms, bringing us closer together. He asks me to kiss him with a tilt of his head and the taste of his mouth is remembrance. It was for want of this that I fell into my unreasonable frenzy but now, being given it, I am struck by its presence. Warm, liquid smooth and jarringly simple, this thing is. Him. I want him. Everywhere. 

_Step_ kiss _glide_ sigh _trip_ laughter and _here_ I'm falling backwards, bluest-dark wings fluttering around me, crushing up against my body as he holds me down. They're creeping under my clothes alongside his clever little fingers, sensual tickling drawing my focus from his lips and down to the rest of him. I want him naked, pale and slick against me _on me_ and around me. Hot and whispering things I strain to comprehend, letters I struggle to sort into words. _Want_ what I want, wanting _please_ want this like I want it _all_. 

I've accepted that I want his tongue where it is, stroking against mine like he owns me--not that he doesn't, at least the part of me that's here now. And the parts that aren't here now, or later, but they can be tracked down when I'm not distracted by his nimbleness. We're naked and I'm impressed at how fast he did that, although time isn't moving normally at the moment so I can't be sure of anything but where he is. _Here_ on top of me, thighs holding me steady, cock kissing mine. I want to be inside him, to shove myself deeper and harder than I can imagine being and just like that, cool something-or-another coats my fingers. He's reading my mind again, guiding me _backward_ until I can press _forward_ , up and through, ignoring the pressure until I feel the _snap_ resiliency I know all too well. He wants me here. 

Inside, slick and hot _reaching_ , he's squirming, trying to get closer. There's little space between us, but there could be less and in the sweetness of time there'll be none whatsoever. The cadence is uninterrupted, his urgency not crazed by impatience, all too willing to let this languid pace be as dizzyingly intoxicating for him as it is for me. Loosed upon himself, spiraling down until he's dancing in place, swayed by his own body. 

He's so caught up in it that when I slide my cock into him, he doesn't pause; his body accepts me with the same regard it gives the blue lights cast down upon us. I'm here to give him something to drape across, a form to envelope and release. He's captivating, captured by sensation, and once again I want to immortalize that image, keep it burned in my mind. 

My body says move, muscles tightening and hips thrusting up, sending his back forward into an exaggerated curve. He's riding me in slow motion, every joint flexing with incredible control as we are deconstructed. Fucking broken down into its constituent parts, and only now does all that touching seem like it's part of the act. It's not foreplay, or affection, but rather an integral piece of the whole. The in-and-out cannot be accomplished without communication between the this-and-that of the rest of our bodies, my mouth finding his shoulder, whispering through it to his knees as they press a message from my hips to my fingertips. 

We're orchestrated effortlessly, minimalist direction telling us only what we didn't already know. The silence is gratifying; this we've done often enough that being _in_ is a shock only in that it still leaves me breathless. _Oh_ god _I'm_ caught up, hands locked on his hips, dragging me up to meet him _down_ , legs aching and shoulders protesting how my back is arched skyward. His cock is pressed tight against me, heat marked by how my chest is cooled as his belly arches away, arms on my shoulders holding his head high. Eyes canted upwards but I can still feel his gaze, even as his calves spasm and clench, heels slipping on velvet. I can hear him _reaching_ , pulling us taut, apart, slung back together in an instant of _away again_. 

An icy sliver of absolute cold presages the end; my spine freezes in warning an instant before an unholy pressure holds me up and rips me outward _up_ into him, his weight balanced on the fulcrum of my body, _still_. Poised in ruins. 

Cities have fallen faster than we're coming down; each microscopic shift is an act of postcoital foreplay, winding up and settling down a thousand times a second. Collapsible artwork, folding in on itself, his breath soft against my neck. I don't need to hold him in place, but my arms want the reassurance that I'm still around him, tethered safely inside us.


End file.
